Page 122 of Pucking Bad Boys

My big brother is hellbent on scoring, and he gets sloppy, taking risks he would never take during a real game.

And the more he fucks up, the angrier he gets.

“Get out of my fucking way.” He fights me for puck possession when I try to intercept a pass from Colsen. When I gain control of the puck, he chases me, but I shoot before he catches up with me.

The result is an open ice hit where I get slammed against the boards so hard that the wind is knocked out of me and I crumble onto the ice like a rag doll.

“You ok?”

“Fuck you.” I slap away the gloved hand he offers me, no doubt because he’s worried about what Coach might say.

The concern in his eyes looks genuine, but I don’t buy it. “Dude, I didn’t mean to?—”

“Then don’t.” I snap, scrambling back onto my feet without his help. “This is just practice; there’s no need to hit so hard.”

It’s only fair that I return the favor. So at the next opportunity, I slam his ass against the boards even though the puck was on the opposite side of the rink.

“Shayba!” Coach bellows. “Both of you! What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I’m all about giving one hundred percent at practice, but you need to tone it down before you injure one another.”

I might have played for Coach Harrison for only a matter of weeks, but even I know that you don’t talk back to him when he’s yelling at you. Unless you have a death wish.

That seems the case for Mack. “He started it!” He points a gloved finger at me.

There are less than two years between us, and Mack brings up that he’s older whenever it suits him. For once, I taunt him about our age difference.

“Like hell I did.” I can’t help but bite out. “You just can’t take it when someone is faster than you, old man.”

Mack drops his gloves. “Maybe that last growth spurt you hit messed with your fucking brain cells. I can still kick your ass even if you’re taller than me.”

If he wants a fight, he might have just gotten himself one. I’ll show him that he can’t bully me anymore, like when we were kids.

“Shayba!” A vein pops up on Coach’s forehead, his face taking a crimson hue. “You’re the fucking team captain, Macklin. Is this the example you want to offer to your teammates? I expect a lot more from you.”

Mack’s jaw ticks, his blazing gaze fixed on me as he responds to Coach. “No, Coach.”

“Then you better sort out whatever your problem is.” Coach Harrison’s tone is sharp. “And do it away from my rink. Hit the showers, both of you. And for both your sakes, I expect you to act like Cove Knights at our afternoon practice. Am I being clear?”

“Crystal.” Mack steps off the ice with a black cloud over his head, and I have no choice but to follow him into the locker room.

Macklin

It’s the fucking story of my life.

Becker acts like a little shit, and I get the blame. Our parents always used to scold me even when they saw full well that he was the one who started the fight.

My mom’s favorite line has always been, “You’re older. You’re more mature and you should know better.”

So Becks always got away with murder while I got blamed every time. Even when he was the one who acted out.

You were the one who hit him. All he did was steal the puck from you when you let him.

I ignore the voice in my head, ripping my helmet off and throwing it against my locker.

“What the fuck crawled up your ass?” he yells, hot on my heels as he rips off his own helmet. “You hit opponents like that. Not your own teammates.”

And not your own brother.He doesn’t say that out loud, but the implication is more than clear.

“Don’t play a high contact sport if you can’t handle a few hits.” I bite out.