Page 9 of Ice Queen

Handing me a hat and a pair of sunglasses, we walk down the street in comfortable silence. My mouth is drier than the Sahara, and the taste of stale tequila threatens to empty the lack of sustenance in my stomach right here on the sidewalk.

I take a breath the second we step through the doors of the hotel, and I’m met with heat. It’s then that I realize it’s still dark outside and I can’t feel my fingers or toes. I look over at Reed, whose gaze is trained on the elevator. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say a word until we’re in our room.

He immediately pulls out his phone, the headline making me cringe. Bloody hell, this is not good. “From Hat Tricks to Hangovers: Tampa Bay Hawks Center, Markus Samuels, found unconscious outside a bar in the streets of Toronto.”

I plop on the bed, throwing myself backward until I’m staring up at the ceiling, sunglasses still firmly in place.

“Want to tell me what led to this?”

I let out a sigh. It doesn’t matter what I say; he isn’t going to believe me. “I was leaving. I swear I wasn’t trying to get hammered. I just…” My throat tightens. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t have that much to drink.”

“I want to believe that. But you kind of have a track record, man.” He sighs, the bed shifting under his weight as he sits next to my head. “You don’t usually get drunk enough to pass out, though. What was different this time?”

I want to tell him it wasn’t the alcohol at all, that it was panic, fear. But then he’d want a story, and I’m not in the mood for that. Instead, I settle for, “I guess it just got the better of me today.” I give him a nonchalant shrug. “Probably didn’t eat enough.”

He grunts, which in Reed language means he doesn’t buy it. He’s been my travel roommate since I got traded to the Hawks. I couldn’t have asked for a better roomie, even though he’s not the party guy, he always makes sure I’m okay. Like a protective older brother, one I’d trust with my life.

“Right,” he finally says, standing up and turning off all the lights before climbing into his bed. “Just be prepared for the shit Sterling is going to give you when we get on the plane.”

My eyes fly open, and my throat starts to ache as I choke on the realization. How do I get out of this? Buy a ticket and find my own way home? No, that would make it worse. Fake my death and start over in a foreign country? Really, guy? That’s the best you can come up with?

“I’ve got your back.” He softly says into the darkness, “Always.”

The blades of my skates cut through the ice as I race toward the puck. Quickly shifting my hips, I turn so I’m skating backwards. I tap my stick against the ice, letting Monroe know I’m open, and as soon as his eyes meet mine, they widen. I failed to look behind me, my skate catches on my teammate’s, and now I’m sliding across the ice like the turtle from Mario Kart.

“Damn it!” I yell, smacking the ice with my stick hard enough that it snaps.

“Samuels!” Coach Sterling’s voice echoes through the practice arena. I stay where I am for a beat longer than necessary, staring up at the rafters, taking more than one cleansing breath so I don’t snap. Pushing myself up, I send a glare in his direction, one that he ignores. Wilson hands me a new stick, and I reset at the faceoff circle without a word.

“Run it again, and try sucking less this time.” His words ring louder than the whistle. A few muttered curses can be heard from my teammates. Not at me, but at the man who thinks he’s doing anything good. He’s not, and there’s not a man on this team who can stand him.

But I think I hate him more than anyone. He’s had it out for me since before he even officially started working here. Coach Sterling, bane of my bloody existence. And besides being the most condescending, entitled prick on the planet, he’s so controlling that I swear to God you can’t breathe in his direction without him having some comment about it.

I stay silent and drop my gaze to the blue dot in front of my skates, tracking the divots in the ice, silently planning my route. My jaw tightens as I wait for Reed to meet me on the other side. I was good when I got here, but Coach Sterling’s need for control has taken us so far out of our flow that none of us are playing like we should.

“Run it again,” Coach Stevens says, softer than coach dickhead did.

“Relax your shoulders,” Reed says, setting up on the other side of the circle. I roll my eyes only for him to tap the toe of my skate with his stick.

Looking up, I immediately notice the way his jaw is set, brows furrowed in a way they never are during practice. He’s the calm, cool, and collected one. Our fearless leader, but right now, he looks to be seconds from popping a gasket.

“Don’t let him get to you. He’s not worth it.” His voice tight, stick settling over his thighs.

Then the puck hits the ice, and he smacks it to the right. I blink, and he’s halfway down the ice. I think not.

Pushing off my back skate, I press harder until my lungs burn. Getting the puck from Wilder, I shoot it down the middle, right to the stick of one of our defenseman, Brett Wilson. He takes it behind the net, buying me and my line some time to get back down the ice.

In an instant, he’s around the left side of the net, passing the puck to me. I wind up, then backhand it at the last second to Monroe, who takes a slap shot, depositing the puck in the top right corner of the net.

I don’t celebrate with my teammates, though. I simply get to the bench and slide down until I’m shoulder to shoulder with the line in front of me.

“Better,” Coach Stevens says with a bit of amusement in his voice.

I almost smile, but then the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard, aka Coach Sterling, sounds from over my shoulder. “Next time, don’t take so long to react off the faceoff. That could have been a goal for the other team.”

“Yeah? But it wasn’t,” I fire back.

“It’d do you some good to respect your authority.” I freeze with my water bottle halfway to my mouth. My hand tightens around the plastic, and I turn just in time to see him cross his arms, a satisfied smirk plastered on his face.