Page 12 of Callous Shot

“That’s an understatement.”

We were both right. The Cranham Kings versus the Whelford Flames was always going to be a bloodbath, and from the second the game started, it felt as if there was something in the air making the players even more riled up than usual.

“Fucking prison bitch.”

“Whelford wanker.” My teammate Kane shot past me, slamming into the Flames player who’d insulted him, and then it was a blur of fists and pulling at jerseys, equipment getting thrown around everywhere while my teammates and the refs tried to pull them apart. At the benches, Coach was seething. Kane was already on thin ice with him, and he was about to get a suspension if he kept this up.

As I flew down the ice into the Whelford zone, someone streaked past my vision, and I immediately changed trajectory.

My nemesis got all up in my face. “Stay the fuck away from me. You’re obsessed.”

This absolute asshole. “You’re fucking obsessed,” I ground out as he shoved at me. Breaking away from him, I skated towards Jay. “Try to keep up.”

Jay passed the puck back to me, and I took a shot, but it went wide. I let out a string of swear words as Lincoln appeared in front of me yet again, a smirk curving over his mouth. “Try aiming for the net next time.”

I hated the way Lincoln Bellingham got under my skin so easily. I wanted to punch him so badly. In fact⁠—

I lunged at him, but Jay was there, forcibly pulling me away, and then it was time for a line change.

On the benches, I swiped my water bottle and tipped it to my lips, my heart pounding with rage and adrenaline as I counted down the seconds until I could get back onto the ice. But once I was back out there and entered the Whelford zone, it went from bad to worse.

Crack. The blade of my stick connected with another, hazel eyes burning with hate boring into mine as I body-checked player number fifty-two.

“I thought I told you to stay the fuck away from me,” Lincoln snarled.

“You’re the fucking D-man marking me, and you’re the one constantly getting in my fucking face. Go and play on the other fucking side if you want to keep your distance, or better still, bench yourself.”

“Shut your mouth, asshole.” He came at me again, and I saw red.

A distant alarm blared in the back of my mind, but I easily silenced it, my gloved fist swinging back to punch Lincoln straight in the stomach. He snarled, launching himself at me, and we both skidded across the ice, slamming up against the boards. The game was forgotten as we grappled with each other, both trying to get the upper hand. I wanted to hurt him, to make him bleed.

“You absolute wanker,” I bellowed in his face. “Stay the fuck away from me!”

“Stay the fuck away from me.” He wrapped both arms around my torso, twisting, sending my body down to the ice with a jarring crash that reverberated through my entire body.

Before I could launch myself at him again, black and white stripes appeared in my field of vision, and the next thing I knew, I was seething in the penalty box with my helmet clasped in my gloved hands.

The rest of the game was a shambles. By the time we reached the third period, the scoreboard still read 0-0, Coach Lazovsky’s face was turning a shade of purple, and I knew I had to do something. As much as I wanted to smash Lincoln into the ice and make him bleed, I had to think about the team. Easier said than done with Bellingham constantly in my face.

But I was a professional, and the one thing worse than sharing the ice with my nemesis was having his team beat mine. With that in mind, I threw everything I had into the final period, ignoring every single one of Lincoln’s attempts to get under my skin. I could tell that he was confused that I wasn’t fighting back like I normally would—like I had throughout the previous two periods—but the only thing that mattered right now was getting the win.

“Ry! Like we practised,” I called out breathlessly as we went into overtime, and he jerked his head in assent. We were beyond tired, pushing ourselves to the edge, but we had to keep going. Sweat dripped into my eyes, making them sting as I raced down the ice with the puck, straight towards Lincoln. My muscles were burning, and my lungs were on fire, but I pushed through. Mental strength over physical exhaustion.

I deked around Lincoln at the last second, flicking the puck towards Ryker. Lincoln’s stick caught the edge of mine as I hit it away, changing the puck’s trajectory, and I roared in frustration as I barrelled straight into him.

Through the blur of movement as we both crashed to the ice again, immediately scrambling to right ourselves, I saw Ryker dive forwards with his arms outstretched. His stick managed to connect with the puck, sending it into the crease.

The angle was all wrong, and the hit was sloppy, but somehow, the Flames’ goalie fumbled the save. The puck pinged off the left bar and bounced into the net.

It was a miracle, but it hardly even seemed worth celebrating. I skated over to Ryker, slapping my glove against his in a muted celebration. He couldn’t even bring himself to attempt a smile. The game had taken everything out of us, and it had barely been enough.

Coach Lazovsky wasn’t impressed, either, storming out of the rink before we’d even left the ice. I skated over to the player benches on shaky legs, tugging off my helmet and gulping chilled air into my lungs.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I slowly turned around. I knew the feel of Lincoln’s hateful gaze on me, but this was different. Something unknown. Something that set me on high alert.

Then I saw him. A man, high in the stands, looking straight at me.

There was nothing about him that made him stand out. Wearing a plain navy hoodie and a generic black baseball cap pulled low over his head, with a dark beard obscuring his jaw, he was completely nondescript. But it was the fact that he was so nondescript that set alarm bells ringing.