Page 192 of Pucking Them
Eden glances at me. “Problem?”
I gingerly read down my notification.
“Another article.” I start to read. “Chaos erupted yesterday in the Bay Rebels after the beloved captain was allegedly overdosed by the team psychiatrist, leaving fans and teammates reeling ahead of the…” I shove my phone back into my pocket. “At least they’re calling himbelovedandstar captain, rather thanloserorpuck boy. Ironically, this may have done more to rehabilitate D’Angelo’s image than the work that you and I have put in for months.”
Eden huffs.
I glance at D’Angelo, who is pacing like a caged lion up and down, although his knees appear close to buckling.
Well, his image will be rehabilitated, if he can hold it together tonight.
I’m fifty-fifty on that.
D’Angelo has been shouting more advice than coach, slamming his hand on the glass and wildly gesturing at the replacement player, Philippe.
Poor guy.
Philippe is a year or so older than the twins. He is lean and athletic, rather than powerful, but fast. He has long, tousled brown hair, sun-kissed skin, and expressive eyes. His strong jawline makes his face appear sculpted, although his high cheekbones are now bruised from the Penguins’ rough play.
Philippe has been holding his own but doesn’t have the instinctual connection with Shay that D’Angelo does.
Plus, Wilder has zeroed in on the new player, as well as Atlas as the alternate captain, as the weak links.
Both players have been rammed into the boards, blocked, and hit more aggressively than the others.
I’ve noticed uneasily how Wilder has been trying to unsettle the much smaller Philippe by checking him after the whistle.
I wince when Phillipe is once more crushingly hit in the back by Wilder and sent sprawling face first onto the ice.
Wilder sends me a glance over his shoulder, smirking.
Asshole.
“He’s humiliating Philippe.” Eden’s expression darkens. “Hurting him.”
Shay skates to Philippe, holding his hand out to help him up.
Wilder’s gaze darts to D’Angelo and then back to me.
Suddenly, realization dawns, and I feel sick. “He’s putting on a show for both D’Angelo and me. He’s roughing up D’Angelo’s players, when he can’t do anything about it. He thinks that he’s winning this and leading his team to the Stanley Cup Final. Ican see it on his smug, bearded face. He’s also imagining that Philippe is D’Angelo every time that he hits him.”
“Like I role played that Shay was him. But twisted.” Eden’s hands ball into fists. “Can I kill Wilder yet?”
I’m never quite sure if Eden means it when he says things like that.
I choose to believe that he doesn’t.
When Philippe struggles to skate, holding his hip in pain, Eden’s expression shutters.
The way that he stares intently at Wilder makes my stomach flip.
Okay, now I do believe that he means it.
“All killing is vetoed, remember?” I remind him. “We’re killing Wilder by destroying his dream, legacy, and his image of himself, remember? We just need to win this game.”
But how can we?
Shay and the rest of the team will have to do that without D’Angelo.
