Page 17 of Dangle

The kid had phenom written all over him. I’d never been a hockey fan, not like Ewen and some guys I grew up with, including my brothers. Trey Malachek changed that the moment I saw him skate. He was a beautiful man—big but not too big, with the face of a model, but put the man on the ice with knives strapped to his feet, and mesmerizing came to mind.

But something held him back.

And that something wasn’t hard to figure out. Well, it wasn’t if you weren’t an idiot like the analysts and commentators who covered Manchester, and more specifically, Trey himself, were. They harped on his legacy and lineage and the expectations of the hockey world at large as if they had nothing else to report on.

I got it. The boy had the genes for greatness. Lineage might open doors, but it didn’t mean you had it easy. I’d seen it often enough in the Marines: kids who came from generations of Devil Dogs carried the weight of their legacy. Everyone knew your fucking name and whatever issues they had with your family suddenly became your problem, too.

Was it fair?

Fuck, no.

It just was, and the weight of a legacy for the Marines I knew who carried it made life difficult. People either expected greatness or failure. If they were shitty people, they rooted for you to crack under that weight. That’s what it seemed like the hockey world was waiting for—Trey to crack and fail. And unfortunately, the number of minutes the kid had racked up so far, just since I started attending games, leaned toward fulfilling the goals of those shitty ass people.

I envisioned on more than one occasion introducing myself and offering to help him cope with the noise, adding to the weight of legacy and expectation. I held myself back because I drew the line at turning full-blown creep.

Notifications buzzed on my phone. First one, then two, then three. All of them led to one location. My gaze found my best friend in the gym’s mirror wall. Our gazes met briefly before he ducked his head and turned.

That fucking asshole.

Guilt oozed out of him from across the room. It didn’t matter that the fucker’s back faced me. I caught a glimpse of his eyes. But even if I hadn’t, I could read Ewen Grigor like a damn book. He’d tattled to our friends that I was stuck in my damn head.

Priest

What are y’all doing this weekend?

Fancy a trip to warmer weather?

Heard you might need a change of scenery.

Fuck Ewen right up the ass.

Me

Not sure what little birdie you’ve been talking to, but I’m fine.

Priest

The word fine never means a person is actually fine.

Me

Fuck off.

Then Cam joined the conversation.

Cam

Not fucking happening dude. Bauer is sending the jet. Put your ass on it.

Cam typically represented the logical, peaceful, think-first side of the chaos equation with me. But apparently, he jumped ship and join Priest and Ewen on the other side of things. Thanks to Ewen’s loud fucking mouth.

I locked the screen, slipped it into my pocket, then reached for my water bottle before I gave in to temptation and bashedmy best friend’s head in with a weight plate. I guzzled the last of my water, breathing deep and measured.

He had no fucking right. I wasn’t fucking…

Three new texts popped up. Swiping to open them, I realized quickly that the text from Ewen hadn’t been from the group with just the four of us.

Hayden