Page 84 of Vampire Pack

"What shouldn't have taken this long?" I demanded.

We'd won the Stanley Cup every year for the past five years. This was going to be number six.

Assuming Jude got his shit together, and Hollis fucking showed up.

Jude lifted both hands in the universal sign of surrender.

Starting an explanation like that was not a good sign.

"I might have heard that Mallory has blood in her freezer and blackmailed him into going to steal it for me. After I hacked into your pack's calendar and saw that no one was going to be home. Paige and Mallory had a dinner thing scheduled."

I blinked.

King did, too.

"Call him," King finally gritted out. "We'll break your nose for this later."

"I have. Twelve times. He's not answering."

"Paige cancelled the dinner. She's home," I said.

"Fuck. Do you think she killed him? He probably said something fucking stupid. He told me she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen."

"He's Hollis. Of course he said something stupid." King dragged a hand through his waves. "Paige wouldn't kill him, but if he's not here and he's not answering, we have to assume he's out for the game. Your head's not in this, either."

Jude grimaced, but didn't disagree.

"Alright." King turned to face the locker room.

Everyone was listening in, for the most part. Because of course they were. It was the playoffs. Missing Hollis was a big fucking deal, especially when Jude was visibly wrecked.

"Alright," King said again, louder. This time, he was addressing the whole team. "Jude and Hollis are benched tonight, but we're still going to fucking win. Everyone understand?"

There was a moment of tense silence.

Also a bad sign.

"Kolner, you're taking my place," Jude said, his jaw set and his shoulders back. "We've trained for this. You've got this."

Kolner's eyes were bright, his chest swelling. He nodded, once. Then again.

"Ridden, you're replacing Hollis. We've all seen what you can do. You won't let us down," King added, and everyone looked at Ridden.

A grin slowly stretched across his face.

Kolner and Ridden had been on the bench most of the season, but they'd practiced with all of us every fucking day. Hell, they'd practiced more than the rest of us, because we were trying to take it easy between games.

"Yorkie isn't going to let any pucks by, so all we need is one goal," someone else called, from across the room.

"Damn straight," I called back.

King kissed me for good luck—his newest superstition—before we went out onto the ice.

Two hours later, we were back in the locker room, riding the high of our victory and wrestling with the adrenaline coursing through all of us.

I had rage, too.

Only a little, though.