Page 105 of Blades Out
The words struck bone-deep.
Someone else. Ben's easy smile. His safe, uncomplicated interest. The way Olivia had laughed with him, relaxed in ways she never was around me.
The image of her accepting his dinner invitation sliced through me like a blade between ribs.
I couldn't breathe suddenly. Couldn't think past the visceral rejection screaming through every nerve.
No. No one else got to touch her. Look at her. Make her smile.
She was?—
I stopped the thought violently. Forced my expression back to stone even as my pulse roared in my ears.
Maddox studied me a moment longer, then nodded once. "Figure it out, Coach. Before you lose something you can't get back."
He turned and skated toward the tunnel, leaving me alone on the ice with truths I didn't want to face and a possessiveness I had no right to feel.
My hands shook.
I stared at the empty rink and knew—with sick, certain clarity—that Maddox was right. I'd already lost control. The only question was what I'd do about it.
I grabbed a puck from the bucket and fired. The shot cracked off my blade clean, whipped past the goalpost, and buried itself in the top corner of the net. The sound echoed through the empty arena—sharp, violent, satisfying.
I grabbed another. Same result. Upper ninety, bar down. A third. Glove side, perfect placement.
My breathing came hard, not from exertion but from the adrenaline still burning through my veins. Each shot felt like trying to expel the chaos clawing under my skin. It didn't work.
"You still have it," Maddox said behind me, apparently having never left, approval clear in his voice.
I spun the stick in my hands, eyes on the net. "Never lost it."
"Coulda fooled me with how rusty you've been acting."
I cut him a look. He grinned, unrepentant.
"I'm not rusty."
"You're distracted. Different thing." He skated closer, tapped my shin pad with his stick. "But those shots? That's the Rhys Ackerman everyone remembers. The one who made forwards piss themselves before they crossed the blue line."
"I was an enforcer, not a sniper."
"You were both. That's what made you dangerous." He circled lazily, watching me with that calculating intelligence he hid behind cocky smiles. "So what happened? You forget how good you were, or you just decide being miserable suited you better?"
My jaw tightened. "I'm not miserable."
"Right. And I'm not married to the best thing that ever happened to me." He stopped skating, eyes sharp. "You know what Kennedy told me once? She said I was angrier at myself than anyone else could ever be. Said I was punishing myself for shit that wasn't even my fault."
I said nothing. Kept my gaze on the ice.
"She was right," Maddox continued quietly. "And you're doing the same thing. Whatever happened to make you this locked down—you're carrying it like penance."
Heat flared in my chest. "You don't know?—"
"I know enough." He cut me off, voice firm but not unkind. "And I know that woman—whoever she is—deserves better than you hating yourself for wanting her."
The words hit like a punch.
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that it was more complicated, that he didn't understand the weight of what I'd done, what I kept doing.
