Page 36 of The Risk Taker

He slows just enough to drift through my line of sight again, and—because he’s Logan—he winks. “Maybe I’m just distracted by the goalie’s ass.”

I let out a breath behind my mask. He can’t go five minutes without running his mouth. He wants me to bite back. So I don’t. I stay still. Keep my eyes on the puck instead of him. Pretend I didn’t hear it, even though I did. Even though I start to feel the heat creeping up the back of my neck that has absolutely nothing to do with how much I’m sweating in front of the net.

“Ryan, you’re drifting too wide,” my sister says, pointing with her pen toward the blue line. “Stay inside the dots. If Logan cuts back, he’s got a freeway down the middle.”

Ryan nods, already adjusting his stance and Izzy shifts her attention. “Austin, you’re collapsing too deep. Let Cole handle the pinch. Stay higher so that when we regain the puck, you’re an actual option to start the breakout.”

Austin gives a salute that makes her roll her eyes, but he moves anyway.

Coach blows the whistle. “Run it again.”

Austin takes off down the right side. The guy just… loves this game. You can see it in the way he skates, the way he lights up when the puck hits his stick, like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.

I track all of it from the crease, sliding when Ryan shifts, keeping my weight centered. Ryan settles the puck near the blue line and lifts his head. I read his shoulders, the angle of his bottom hand, the slight flare of his blade. He’s passing. I can tell before the puck’s even gone, and still it’s off his stick before I fully commit.

Austin catches it and dips his shoulder, driving down the wall. He’s faster than he looks, built for brute force, but he still makes it look easy as he glides through the ice. Has to be due to all the figure skating he does with his girlfriend.

I slide with him, catching his eyes through the cage. He fakes the pass once. Twice. He loves that shit—making me wait, trying to bait me out of position. Ryan creeps in backdoor, his stick ready.

Austin looks at him, then at me, and flashes a grin through his helmet before he shoots.

I drop and push hard to the left, stretching out to knock it wide, and the second my edge digs in, something in my thigh snaps tight. A sharp pull tears up the muscle, hot and fast, stealing the air from my lungs so quickly my vision flickers for a second.

The puck whistles past my glove and pings off the far post before slamming into the netting.

Austin throws his arms up. “Let’s go!” he yells, circling behind the net with that shitty, triumphant grin.

I stay crouched, my chest heaving under all this gear, praying this passes before anyone notices. My thigh is throbbing like hell, but it’s just a strain… probably. Nothing serious. Still—fuck, it hurts.

I try to shift my weight to the other leg, pretending I’m just resetting my position but carefully testing the muscle. The movement sends another spark of pain through my thigh, sharp enough to make me bite down hard on the inside of my cheek.

Don’t react. Don’t limp.

I reach down to nudge the puck away with my stick and start to move back into position?—

“You good?”

The voice hits me before I even register who it is. I look up, and Logan’s right there, his dirty blond hair plastered to his forehead. The usual grin’s gone, replaced by something that looks a little too serious for him.

Shit.

I straighten my back automatically, feeling the strain in my upper thigh when I do. “Fine,” I lie, my voice wavering a little as the pain shoots up my leg.

His brows lift, not buying it. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” I say, too quick. “Just get back into position.”

He studies me for another second, before skating backward toward the line.

I shift my weight, trying to stretch out the leg, but the second I do, pain tears up my thigh. I suck in a breath through my teeth and I dig my stick into the ice for balance while I wait for it to ease up.

Fuck. Practice has to be almost over.

I just need to hold it together until Coach blows the whistle.

Act normal. Keep moving. Don’t fucking limp.

When Coach finally blows the whistle, I blow out a breath but as soon as I stand, the ache in my left thigh sends a sharp tight throb near my groin and I have to lock my jaw to keep anything from showing on my face.