Torn Apart (Torn and Bound Duet 1)

Which is why I’ve stepped up in the interim. I’m team captain and that’s my job. Well, they certainly don’t pay me to, and no one sanctioned it, but I know these guys still need structure and guidance if we have any hope of taking home the championship.

“Soon,” I lie. I don’t fucking know if he’s coming back. Last I heard from Coach’s wife, Jessica, they were gearing up to remove one of his balls. I’m sure as fuck not passing that on to these guys. Talk about dampening someone’s spirit. Talking about cutting off balls will do that to any guy.

“From the top,” I bark out. “I’m going to drive down the center hard and with everything I’ve got. Try and stop me.”

The guys are ready, and our goalie, Cordell Boswell, moves into position. Finn and Wex look at Holden, who’s still being a bitch about following my orders today. He’s always wanted to be team captain, but that shit won’t ever happen as long as I’m around.

“Don’t be lazy,” I call out. “I want to see direct passes. No one rimming the puck. It’s fucking amateur.”

Wex snorts. “Like your mom, Holden.”

Boswell hollers. “Hey, Holdy, I know better. Your mom wasn’t lazy last night when she was moaning out my name!”

We all laugh because Boswell is a thick, black guy with no game whatsoever. Sure, he can guard the goal like no other and flirts with anyone with a vagina, but he never gets laid. Poor fucking guy.

“Make smart plays,” I remind them. “Stop fucking around.”

Everyone grows serious as I tap the puck with my Bauer Nexus ADV leftie stick. It cost almost four hundred dollars. I love this stick, but hated that Mom and Dad spent so much on it. My thoughts start to drift to my family, but I quickly push them back into their compartment. Feelings and shit have no place on the ice. If they did, I’d play like shit.

And I don’t play like shit.

I eat fuckers like Holden for lunch. When he sees the vicious glint in my eyes, he groans. The next several minutes, I make my teammates work for it. Truth is, I carry this team. We all know it. They all talk a lot of crap, but at the end of the day, the Ice Hawks rely on me to help them win.

Boswell is on his game today. I can’t get shit past that fucker. Makes me glad we’re on the same team. Holden grows more and more aggressive. With each play, he gets more pissy until we’re smashed against the boards, him snarling at me.

I’m about to lay his ass out when someone whistles.

“That’s enough, Murphy.”

My blood runs cold with unfiltered rage.

What the fuck is he doing here?

“Is that—” Wex starts, awe in his tone.

I cut him off as I push Holden away. “Why are you here, Thompson?”

The smug asshole is sitting in the box, a St. Louis Blues baseball cap on his head, watching us like he has every right to be here. He leans forward and nods at us.

“Looks like you’re without a coach.”

Unfuckingbelievable.

“He’ll be back soon,” I lie. “Leave.”

Finn skates up beside me, nudging me. He’s the calm to my fury, my closest friend on the team. “Chill, man.”

They don’t understand. No one does. To them, Thompson is a local hero—the one who got to go pro. To me, I see my ex-teammate from high school. The fucker who left me high and dry while I stayed back, forever known as second best. He went on to play for the Blues and was fucking good at it. Not sure why he’s slumming it with us college kids.

I refuse to look him in the eyes. His puppy dog looks won’t work. They haven’t worked over the past four years, and they’re not going to now.

“Brayden,” he grinds out. “I can’t leave. I’m here now.”

This time, when I lift my gaze in confusion, I don’t find his sad eyes. He’s tilted his head down, letting the cap on his hat hide whatever storm is brewing. And there’s a storm brewing. I’ve known him since we were kids. There was a time, before high school, I thought of him like a brother.

Those thoughts make me think of my brother, which really puts me in a bitchy mood.

“Couldn’t hack it in the NHL?” I sneer, skating right up to the box.

My teammates are quiet. I know I can be a dick on the ice, but it’s usually to the other team. Since most of these guys worship Thompson, they’re probably feeling pretty awkward at my blatant disrespect.

“I left,” he says, shrugging. “Now I’m here.”

As much as I want to dig into him and demand to know why he’d up and leave to come coach these delinquents, I bite my tongue.

I don’t care.