Page 32 of Ice Devil

Maybe Sloane would understand.

Then again, why should she?

There was some truth to her tease.

I wasn’t interested in anything long term.

* * *

Talk about a bag of chips and all that, my brother believed himself to be unstoppable today. Practice had been kick-ass, but he was eager to get a puck into the net. He’d done so with the other two goalies, rolling by them as if they were still playing in the little leagues.

Not this guy.

Granted, I knew how my brother played, his aggressive actions on the ice always a little over the top as he was about to set the puck ready to take a nice, long spin. That allowed me an advantage.

Or so I’d thought. The second Ford’s signature smile flashed, I realized he’d changed up the game plan, refusing to allow his moment of glory to fade.

Even in a practice session, my brother was competitive as fuck.

We both were.

While nonchalantly looking for a gap in my armor, I acted as if I didn’t have a care in the world while a sudden barrage of instructions from a few of the others created a din of chaos.

My damn brother had somehow convinced them to try to blow my concentration.

That wasn’t going to happen.

The world suddenly shrank, becoming all about the three-inch disc of rubber that was about to be barreled in my direction. When I was in the zone, time didn’t just slow down, it stopped altogether. Being frozen in the moment was as thrilling in practice as during a live game.

Yet the roar of the crowd didn’t excite me like usual.

As soon as Ford took the shot, my brain didn’t just calculate angles. It was vibrating from years of knowledge, a thousand plus games played and with the understanding of what my brother was capable of.

The shot was perfectly placed, his aim directing the puck to the top right corner. In that fraction of a second, the puck had become a living, breathing element. I felt as one with it, my eyesight capable of tracking it until the last second. Now my reaction was all about feel and training.

With the net behind me feeling dangerously empty, it seemed as if the rest of the team was just waiting for the final, brutal clang of the post.

Instead of providing them with a false celebration, I opted to enjoy watching their faces fall if only for a few minutes. I threw my glove into the void, enjoying the rush of air and the control I felt.

There was nothing like the moment of deflection. Pure raw exhilaration.

With a combination of collective groans and cheers, I threw my arms into the air. Maybe I was an asshole, but seeing the look of sheer torment on Ford’s face made the moment that much sweeter.

He jerked off his helmet, hanging his head.

“Nice save,” the Brute said as he skimmed through the ice close to me.

Ford shifted back and forth, moving one skate in front of the other. When he finally lifted his head, he was grinning and offered a salute.

I ripped off my helmet and gloves, satisfied with my performance. The first thing I did was to look for the coach and his approval. All I got was a nod before he turned away, but that was enough.

“Hey, man,” Cujo said as he moved closer. “Chicago is on fire. We need to win the game coming up.”

“Yeah, so I heard.” The Chicago Wild Dogs were already favored to win another Stanley Cup, the wins they’d racked up attributed to the Masters brothers. They’d taken the hockey world by storm and had refused to relinquish control.

“You read the shit on social media today?”

“Let me guess,” I said as I moved away from the net. “A matchup made in heaven between the Masters and the Kendrick brothers. Just watch out or they might eat you for real.” I was being facetious, but I’d caught a couple of headlines before heading to practice.