Page 67 of Bonus Game
“We’re rivals, and I tolerate you,” Kingston said, fighting to keep his tone even. “I can’t be friends with a guy with weird hair and shifty eyes.”
Kingston pushed toward center ice, grinning when Evans made a choked sound of disbelief behind him.
“Why do you keep saying that?” said Evans, skating beside him and matching his pace. “You literally make no sense.”
There was enough noise with multiple drills happening, and the coaching staff’s booming voices calling out through the empty arena, so Kingston wasn’t worried about being overheard when he broke into his rant.
“Your eyes—what colour are they? Sometimes they’re brown, sometimes green, blue, grey, fucking—yellow. Are you wearing contacts? I don’t understand why they keep changing.”
Kingston gently bumped Evans on the head with his gloved hand.
“And your hair. It’s either brown or blond. Sometimes it’s a mix, and I feel like I’m getting gaslit here. Are you dyeing it every couple of days, or are your eyes and hair just weird like you?”
Evans had blue eyes today, and his hair was brown. Kingston hated how much he noticed the small, insignificant details about a guy he was supposed to dislike, which made his urges all the more confusing.
“My eyes don’t really have a colour,” said Evans. “I’m not sure what the official term for it is, but they’re so light that they reflect the colours around them, so they change depending on where I am. They’re even listed asmulticouloredon my driver’s license.”
Kingston knew he was still scowling, but it was out of confusion instead of annoyance this time.
“As for the hair,” Evans pulled off his helmet and tossed his hair around, like he was a proud, preening peacock. “I have no idea, man. It’s darker now because it’s winter and the sun isn’t out as often, but once summer hits, I’ll go back to being blond.”
Go back to being blond. As if Evans was a fucked-up werewolf shifting into a human after a full moon.
“You’re still glaring,” said Evans. “Was my explanation not satisfactory?”
They made it to center ice, pausing the conversation for now to listen to what Coach wanted to see for their next play. Kingston pushed the information about his multicolouredfriendto the side and locked in. He wanted to prove himself to Coach Sullivan more than he wanted to unravel the mystery that was Riley Evans.
Teams were switched. Rookies against veterans.
They had done this before, but none of the veterans had played seriously enough to give their younger teammates a taste of what an NHL game was like. The physicality, the grittiness—the reason why Kingston was scouted as an enforcer to protect his guys from aggressive plays.
They were doing it for real this time. The veterans were going to push them, and it was up to the rookies to adapt or have their pride crushed against the boards.
Carr and Banner would be fine, but Kingston worried for Evans. The guy did enough damage to himself without having to dodge checks and engage in board battles.
“Stay off the boards,” Kingston ordered, stopping beside Evans, who was tightening his helmet. “Let me fight there and get the puck for you. I’m stronger, and you’re the better shot.”
Kingston thought the hint of praise would persuade Evans to listen to him, but of course, Evans rolled his eyes like the child he was.
“Our roles aren’t defined just because I’m prettier and you have more muscle,” Evans snipped. “Stop…circling me like a helicopter parent. I’m fine.”
Kiss or punch.
Kiss or punch.
Fuck, Kingston needed a drink.
One of their veteran teammates, a chill guy named Vance Solis, skated over to clap Kingston on the shoulder. “Stop panicking, Sloan. We’ll go easy on your boy.”
Kingston sometimes had a hard time understanding Vance because his accent was caught between Spanish and Scottish, but he sure as fuck understood that one.
“He’s notmy boy,” Kingston snapped, pushing his overbearing teammate away, frowning when laughter echoed behind him as he went to the puck drop.
Kingston caught a glimpse of Evans’s pinched expression over Banner’s hunched form, and then the puck hit the ice.
The tone was strikingly different from that morning. The moment the puck smacked the ice and Banner flicked the puck in Kingston’s direction, the pressure swelled into an oncoming wave that threatened to sweep him into the storm.
The veterans weren’t playing around. They chased Kingston like rabid wolves, cutting him off before he could enter their zone and forcing him to chip the puck or risk losing it on a pass.
