Page 16 of Playing With Fire

Mercer slams into the glass, then turns toward me, a grin splitting his face. “About fucking time.”

I shove my glove against his helmet. “You’re welcome.”

Jax skates into us. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

The rest of the line crashes into us before we head for the bench.

I take a deep breath, letting the cold air burn my lungs before I exhale slowly. My pulse pounds beneath my gear, sweat cooling at the back of my neck despite the chill rolling off the ice.

Read the ice. Find the opening. Make the play.

This is my comfort zone. Twenty thousand screaming people, whether they’re cheering or cursing us-—it gets my blood pumping. Nothing will ever compare to this feeling.

Eleven bodies moving at once. A puck traveling faster than most people can track, and somehow, everything slows down.

Open ice.

Weak side.

Stick position.

The fraction of a second before a defenseman commits. I see the play in my mind like a movie before it happens. Always have.

But off the ice? Things aren’t so black-and-white.

I swing over the boards.

Tallis Deacon is practically vibrating beside me.

“Sit.”

The rookie defenseman looks over.

“What?”

“Stay.”

“Fuck you.”

“Good boy.”

Jax barks out a laugh.

Tallis is twenty-one, talented as hell, and has apparently made it his personal mission to discover how many ways a human body can be launched into another human body before someone from league discipline intervenes.

Coach taps my shoulder.

“Bishop. You’re up.”

I hop the boards.

The familiar scrape of steel against ice cuts through the crowd noise.

St. Louis wins the faceoff, but we take possession in the neutral zone.

And everything else disappears.

By the time I shower, dress, deal with the media, and make it back to the hotel, it’s late.