The next time, he doesn’t bother with the puck and just slams me into the boards. The glass rattles, and I hear Jade’s gasp from the bench. I bite down on my mouth guard and trap the puck against the boards with my skate to keep it out of his reach. But I mean, he’s more interested in being an asshole than playing hockey at this point anyway.
“When’s the last time you smiled?” he says. I shove my hip into him and get enough space to kick the puck out to Zero.
Jaysen doesn’t let up, chirping me whenever he’s in earshot and throwing his body into me every chance he gets. Delilah bumps my shoulder as I catch my breath after one particularly rough hit.
“I think someone’s a little afraid of you,” she says with a wink.
I roll my eyes, but she has a point. He wouldn’t be homed in on me like this if he wasn’t thinking about our draft projections. So I put up with his antagonism, even when he makes a jab at my size and says, “You gotta buy kid skates or what?”
That one almost gets me. It’s not like I’m that short. Perfectly average, actually.
Okay, maybe a few inches below average. For a non-athlete. Most hockey players have something like eight inches on me. But Jaysen only has six, so it’s not like he’s the tallest guy on the ice, either.
He gets around me and puts the puck top shelf, right through one of the holes in the corner of the shooting target, and when he looks at me, his smile is small and cocky, his stick resting across his hips as he glides on one foot back to the rest of us. Delilah’s on the bench with Jade now, explaining the game to her as it plays out in front of them.
Might as well give her a lesson in chirping.
“Who taught you how to tape a twig?” I ask. Jaysen’s got a single strip of black tape along the bottom edge of the blade and white tape from middle to toe. It’s the most atrocious tape job I’ve ever seen.
He plants the butt of his stick on the ice and practically cradles the blade, drawing a finger along the black strip. “This gives me enough grip to catch a pass while also being thin enough to give me a better feel for the puck.” He jabs at the white tip. “This grips the puck right before it comes off the shot and gives it a wicked spin.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Makes you look like a duster.”
The corner of his mouth twitches and my heart stutters like I’m in danger. “Makes me play like a first overall draft pick.”
I let out this quiet little chuckle and shake my head, looking away from him. He’s absolutely delusional.
“So that’s what gets a reaction out of you, huh, Your Grace?” Jaysen tilts his chin up, sliding closer. “A challenge to your birthright?”
My eyes narrow at the title. First Nova, now him? Does he not realize he’s a Royal now, too?
“Trust me,” I drawl. “You’re no challenge.”
He gets in my space, towering over me so I have to look up at him. He’s taken his piercings out for hockey, but I’ve seen enough pictures of him off the ice to know exactly where they’d go. Black hoops in his nose and lip. The silver chain of a necklace glitters against his dark brown skin, and even though he’s sneering at me, he’s got dimples that make me want to punch myself in the face.
I refuse to give him ground, even with my heart racing and palms sweating in my gloves.
Before he gets a word out, Zero skates up and says, “This is hockey time, boys. You can make out later.”
Jaysen backs away from me so quickly, there’s no way he sees how my cheeks flush.
He gets even more aggressive with his checks after that, and I’m just glad we all decided to gear up for this. It takes all my power to keep my expression neutral. I’m doing a pretty good job of it, until Jaysen clips me on the shoulder after a goal and almost sends me sprawling. I barely keep my feet under me and that’s about as much as I can take.
“What’s your deal?” I ask. I manage to keep my voice just as dead as he expects it to be, but I twist my grip on my stick, heart pounding. “Mad you’re not the best player on your team anymore?”
Jaysen tilts his head to the side, putting all his weight on one foot and casually slouching his shoulders. “Nah. Just thinking about how much you don’t deserve to be here.”
I pull my head back, screwing my face up in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean there’s hundreds of other guys that’ll never get to be here because you’re taking up their space, with a scholarship you don’t need, exposure you don’t need. You have no reason to be here.”
I scoff. Okay, buddy. I am officially done with this. I turn to head off the ice, but Jaysen hooks gloved fingers under my practice jersey and tugs me back to him. It feels like I’m about to combust. I grip my stick so hard my knuckles ache.
“I worked for this, too,” I snap.
He laughs, but it’s this bitter, angry sound. I’ve never dropped the gloves for a fight before, but man, I am so beyond tempted right now.
“Yeah,” he snaps back. “You had to work real hard with a name like that.”
I shove him. A full-on crosscheck to the chest with all my weight behind it. He barely budges. He pushes his fingers through the cage of my helmet and yanks my head toward him. I keep my stick across his chest, but he pulls me close enough that I can smell his sweat, see it on his face. He’s scowling at me, but it’s not all that intimidating with the wedge of red plastic in his mouth.
The sound of skates on ice cuts through the adrenaline pulsing in my head as Zero and Kovy pull up next to us. Jaysen and I keep our eyes on each other when they get their arms between us and push us apart. Jaysen doesn’t let go of my cage until he absolutely has to, almost pulling my helmet clear off my head.
“You superstars need some privacy?” Zero asks. “’Cause it looks like some kinky-ass shit is about to go down here.”
“Or some serious maiming,” Kovy adds.
Zero looks at him and tilts his head, shrugging one shoulder. “They’re interchangeable for some people.” He turns back to us and shakes his head like he’s gotta reactivate his captaincy. He holds an authoritative hand out in front of him. “The point is. You two need to drop this ego garbage. Your draft projections mean nothing on this ice, in these jerseys. Capite?”
Jaysen rolls his shoulders back, standing at his full height so he’s looking down his nose at me. “Just getting to know each other.”
“Save the getting to know each other for when you’ve got a few drinks in you.” Zero heads back toward center ice and motions for us to follow with another head tilt. I don’t move until Jaysen does, skating past me with one final knock of his arm into mine.
I roll my eyes and follow them, watching Jaysen in front of me the whole way. Even after all that, he skates with this kind of grace that could almost rival Mom and my sister Nicolette, and they’re both goddamn Olympic figure skaters with about a dozen medals between them.
Jaysen belongs on the ice. He loves hockey. It’s obvious in the way he tilts his head back and takes in a long, deep drag of cold air, shoulders relaxing like his frustration with me can be cleansed by the smell of the rink alone.
He wasn’t bred to play hockey. He chose it. Absorbed it into his skin, his blood, his bones by his own volition. There’s plenty of others out there just like him who could easily be here on this ice if it weren’t for me.
Jaysen’s right about that, I guess.
Maybe if he wasn’t such a raging asshole, I might even tell him that.
TWO
I’m on my phone in the shower on the first day of classes when I stumble upon a picture Jaysen tweeted last night. And by stumble upon I definitely don’t mean that I specifically went onto his feed to see if he’s talking about the draft. It’s a selfie with him, Dorian Hidalgo, and David Barboza sitting together on a couch I don’t recognize, captioned my two favorite blueliners xoxo.