The Cruelest Kind of Hate (Riverside Reapers Book 3)

GAGE

The rink is alive tonight.

Okay, it’s more like half-awake, and it’s the afternoon, but still. I forgot how much I love being in the throes of a gnarly game—the hiss of skates slicing through ice, the mini snowstorm of loose shavings whirling in the atmosphere, the overlap of voices all competing for attention over the blood pulsing in your eardrums.

With all the stretching and flexibility Cali’s helped me with, I talked to my physical therapist about possibly getting back on the ice for the Reapers’ next game. I honestly wasn’t expecting him to even consider it, but my hip flexor’s healed surprisingly quickly, and he actually cleared me to play this upcoming Saturday.

Maybe it’s the time away or Cali’s anxiety rubbing off on me, but I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve ever really been nervous about playing. Well, aside from my NHL debut.

I just…I failed my teammates when I couldn’t block that last shot. And I’ve failed them every game since by not being there. This is my one chance at a comeback. This is my one chance to show the fans that I’m better than ever, and that I’m still a good fucking goalie. This is what I’ve been working toward for almost three months.

But today, it’s Teague’s turn.

Pods of tiny bodies skate across the ice, all shouting and attempting to chirp at one another with the cutest, most PG-13 insults. None of them could look intimidating if they tried—it’s like staring down a bunch of animated clouds. Their chunky, gear-swaddled figures bump into each other clumsily, shoving to claim the coveted title of star player. I’m impressed by some of the quick puck handling skills and well-executed defense strategies, but I’m equally as entertained to watch the more clueless players chase after the puck like lost puppies.

I don’t know if this pseudo parenting shit is getting to me, but me and Cali are the only ones repping any kind of spirit. The rest of the exhausted parents here settle for the occasional holler and cheer.

My parents never disapproved of my interest in hockey—or the fact that I wanted to pursue a career in it—but they never showed up to games or offered me any kind of support aside from money for gear, equipment, private lessons, and travel expenses. So I understand how important it is for kids to have a support system that goes deeper than half-assed promises and monetary compensation. If I successfully embarrass Teague with my overenthusiasm and large-ass poster, then I’ve killed this whole non-parenting parenting thing. A plus, baby. Read it and weep.

I pull out the gigantic poster I spent all night creating—to which I lost a few fingerprints in the process of making because of whatever dumb fuck created hot glue—and I’m pretty sure I still have glitter in places glitter shouldn’t be.

Cali’s entirely captivated by the game unfolding in front of us, and she’s so focused that her face is practically smushed against the plexiglass. It isn’t until my very loud poster scooches into her personal space that she rears back and glares at me before said glare melts into a look of comical shock.

“Oh my God. What did you do?”

I suck my teeth. “Why do you always have to sound so judgmental?”

“That’s going to distract him!” she whisper-hisses.

“Psh, he won’t even notice this thing is here,” I insist, keeping the twenty-inch cardstock monstrosity firmly plastered where everyone can see it, pride puffing out my chest.

Cali gives me her famous—and usual—unamused scowl. “A pilot from thirty thousand feet up in the air could see that thing and mistake it for an SOS signal.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

When I see Teague’s number flash past me, I whistle and point at the sign that says, GO, TEAGUE! HE’S THE MAN. IF HE CAN’T DO IT, NO ONE CAN! with a bunch of glittery hearts and poorly drawn hockey memorabilia.

Little Man’s head perks up, and a full-fledged smile sprouts on his lips…right before he’s bodychecked into the boards by someone twice his size.

Everyone in the front row winces, and a collective ooh eddies out on warm breaths. Cali’s on her feet within a second, nervously chewing on her nails while her eyes zip from player to player. Her leg’s been shaking this entire time, subjecting my ass to a miniature earthquake, and her concentration face looks a lot like an I’m-going-to-shit-myself face.

I slowly drop the poster (probably for Teague’s best benefit) and rub my hand over the outside of her leg, encouraging her to look at me.

“Relax, Spitfire. He’s doing great,” I say, nodding my head as he chases after the puck.

Cali sits down with a sigh, anxiety sparkling like a half-lit fuse in those deep blue eyes of hers, and her leg has taken a brief pause from its ongoing quaking. “I’m just…he hasn’t made a goal yet, and the game’s over in three minutes.”

“I know. It takes a while for players to gain enough confidence to score goals, especially if they take on new coaches during the season. Your brother’s never had any coaching before.”

I give her thigh a squeeze, and the tension in her worked-up shoulders loosens just a bit. “I know. I don’t expect him to score a goal. I just don’t want him to be disappointed, you know? He’s been working so hard, and what if the other kids are still picking on him and⁠—”

Never in my twenty-two years of life have I ever met someone with a heart as big as Cali’s—a heart made to hold an infinite amount of love despite the small physicality of it. Her compassion is so great that it could set off an avalanche in the stillest parts of winter, that it could be felt across snow-drenched mountain gorges and in the most hard-to-reach crevices.

“As long as you’re proud of him, he’ll be proud of himself,” I reassure her, draping my arm around her frame and pulling her gently into my side, where she rests her head on my shoulder.

A flyaway hair of hers tickles my cheek, and if we weren’t in public, I’d stick my face in her curls and inhale until cinnamon flows through my bloodstream. I want to stay like this forever. My first home and my second home, meeting each other for the first time. Hockey—once the greatest love of my life—passing the baton to the one person who trumps it completely, and who’s rebuilt my entire way of living by tilting my world on its axis.

Just three months ago, I was getting my ass ripped by this five-foot-seven spitfire in front of my entire hockey team, and I was determined to hunt her down, find some random dog shit and bag it, then light it on fire and throw it on her porch. But everything’s changed. No fecal warfare or pyro projectiles for me.

She’s my whole world, and whenever I look at her, I wonder how a single person could mean so much to me—how she unknowingly has the power to destroy me completely.

She instantly raises her head to glance at me. “I am proud! I’m so proud of him! Oh, God. Does he not think I’m proud of him?”

A deep laugh gathers in my chest like a rumbling thunderstorm. “He does. I’m pretty sure you’re the proudest sister in this entire universe.”

“Oh…”

While she’s still facing me, I gently hook my thumb under her jaw, my eyes falling to her lips and lingering there, a grin stretching over my own. I don’t kiss her right away. I internally freak out that I even have the privilege of kissing this girl, and I revel in the proximity she grants me, the one that only ratchets my growing, inexplicable need for her.

She stares down at my mouth, then she nudges her nose against mine, and our foreheads gently knock together. Her minty breath is warm as it hits my face, and if I hadn’t lost all branches of thought, I would’ve made the first move. But she kisses me this time—a slow, indulgent kiss that triggers butterflies in my belly and strikes me with enough brute force to render me speechless.

There’re no aggressive tongues or grabby hands. It’s something chaste yet everlasting in memory.

We both pull away at the same time, and if her cheeks are the slightest shade of pink, then mine must be as subtle as a flashing traffic message board.

The game continues to roar around us, and I keep an eye out for Teague’s jersey in the cyclone of red-and-white bodies, all of whom are still screaming at the tops of their lungs and ping-ponging around like out-of-control fireworks.

“How are you feeling? About your mother?” I ask, interlacing our fingers together. Cali’s freezing from the rink, and I squeeze her palm a little to try and circulate some warmth. Her scars have begun to thicken, which means she hasn’t felt the need to harm herself. And that’s a good sign.

I know her mother is a sensitive topic, but we’re moving her into the facility tomorrow. I need to know that Cali’s going to be okay.

I’m surprised (and relieved) that she’s allowed me to help with her mother’s expenses. I don’t think I would’ve been able to sleep or eat or drink if I continued to stand idly by as she dealt with everything by herself. It’s my unofficial duty to protect Cali and her family. It’s the only thing in this world that matters to me.

Her chest rises with a steady breath, and the tip of her tongue plays peek-a-boo against her lips. “I’m actually doing okay,” she says quietly.

“Cali, that’s great.”

She glances out at the rink. “And Teague…I think he’s doing okay too. I don’t think he fully understands what’s going to happen, though.”

“I think it’s better if he doesn’t understand. He’ll look to you for security because he’s so uncertain, you know? Instead of spiraling,” I admit, rubbing my thumb over the ridge of her knuckles.

“I never really thought about it like that.”

It feels like my aching heart grows twice the size. “You’re his whole world. However you react, he’ll react.”

That worried, tightly pulled expression of hers morphs into a rare calm that I wish I saw more of, and realization settles like rapid-hardening cement in her arctic irises. “I have to be strong for him,” she concludes.

“You have to be strong for yourself,” I correct.

She tosses me a glance—one transient in nature but lasting in effect, living as a core memory in the hub of my brain despite being so mundane.

“When did you get so wise?” she quips.

I stretch my arms over my head. “Oh, I’ve always been wise, baby. It’s just taken you this long to realize it.”

“Oh, please. The only wise thing you’ve done is taken your PT’s advice and stumble into my dance studio.”

“Best decision of my life,” I concur, my lips lifting into a lovestruck smile—one that never existed before I met Cali. One that I didn’t even know I was capable of. And now one that I can’t seem to stop wearing.

Her cheeks steam with an infectious blush, and even though Cali’s confidence is tangible, she always grows shy whenever she receives any type of compliment. It’s like she knows what I’m saying deep down about her is true, but she isn’t used to hearing it. And I’m determined to be the only man in her life to hail her with compliments until the day I die.

“Thank you for making that poster for him,” she says, changing the subject.

I shrug. “It just felt right. This is a win for all of us. I know I’m not, like, his dad or anything. I just wanted to make sure he knows I support him. And that I’m here for him. And that I’m proud of him.”

Cali reaches up to subdue an unruly curl of my hair, fingering it before tucking it back behind my ear. “He knows, Gage. He adores you, and you don’t have to be related to us for him to look at you like a father figure. You’ve done more for him than our dad ever has. And I never even asked you to.”

“Every second of it has been worth it. You guys are…”

My family? My world? My everything? Three months ago, I was a sad, self-pitying loser who thought he was going to die if he didn’t get playing time. I was a loser who always joked about having a multitude of women knocking down my door, when in reality, I was beginning to believe that my person wasn’t out there.

If I hadn’t been late for practice that day, if I hadn’t been a complete asshole and boxed Cali in, I never would’ve found the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. The world gave me an angel when I was least deserving of it. Okay, possibly an angel disguised as a demon, but still. I know this is long overdue, but I want her to be my girlfriend. Officially. I want the entire world to know she’s mine, and I want the entire world to know what an incredible human being she is.

I don’t like sharing Cali, but maybe this is one exception I can make. Hiding her is like trying to hide the moon—impossible, fucking idiotic, and a disservice to those who’ll never witness her inner and outer beauty.

She’s staring at me with those big, Bambi eyes, her brow slightly wrinkled with nervous expectancy, but before I can man up and come clean, the ambience of the rink changes on a dime. A few parents in my peripheral clamber to their feet, peppering the air with rowdy shouts of encouragement, and the ground beneath me begins to shake with the renewed liveliness of the crowd.

My attention barrels to the rink, where a tiny player has the puck and is moving at immeasurable speeds. It’s only a second later when I realize that it’s Teague.

“Holy shit. He has the puck!” I yell, shaking Cali by the shoulders while simultaneously keeping my eyes on his swerving figure.

Cali’s head whips around upon my observation, and she springs to her feet, hauling me up with her as we both watch Teague narrowly dodge an incoming opponent.

“Come on, Teague! You can do it!” she screams, fear and pride grappling for ultimate traction over her face.

I force myself to glance at the clock. There’s exactly thirty seconds left.

He’s going to do it. He’s going to score the winning shot.

My stomach roils with anxiety, and my legs feel like pillars about to crumble, the gravity of the situation laying heavy on my voice box and restricting words from taking shape. He’s doing everything I taught him. He’s staying by the puck, keeping his eye on it, and remaining confident.

He’s a few feet from the goal, and the low defensive position the goalie’s in tells me he’s not expecting a high slap shot. It doesn’t even really look like he’s expecting Teague to get a shot past him at all. And that’s a fatal mistake to make. Never underestimate your opponents.

Cali grabs onto my arm like she’s determined to rip it from its socket, and Teague swings back just in time to make a shot before he’s swallowed up by the wave of offense riding his tail.

His stick arcs slightly off the ground, he smacks the puck with the surface of his blade in a full-force slap shot, and the disc heads directly for the upper corner of the net. The frenzied arena stills. Everything silences around me, like the distant garble of sounds when you’re underwater. My heart stops beating. My breath stops flowing.

And then, even before I hear the audience erupt into ear-bleeding chaos, I see the net billow back from Teague’s winning goal, and the goal lights flash that perfect fucking red color, just as the buzzer signals the end of the game with a ringing drone.

I can’t believe he did it. Oh my God. He fucking did it! I knew he could do it, but a shot like that is—it’s insane. I know world-renowned players who haven’t even accomplished something like that. Do you know how much confidence it takes to carry the responsibility of the last shot of the game? How if you miss it, even if your teammates don’t say it to your face, they probably blame you for the loss? And Teague never faltered once when he was up against those intimidating, post-growth-spurt opponents.

“He did it! He did it!” Cali cries, bouncing on the balls of her feet and clapping her hands.

Teague stands in shock, as if he can’t believe it himself, and the rest of his team swarms him, chanting his name and pumping their sticks into the air. Their war cries and victory screeches harpoon the glacial atmosphere, intermixing with the applause of proud parents and the protesting groans from sore ones.

“He did it,” I whisper under my breath, pride and admiration re-energizing the organ in my chest to resume its pounding rhythm.

Cali hugs me, still jittery with that rush of adrenaline, squeezing me in her arms as a silent gratitude for helping Teague.

But he did this all on his own.

I squeeze her back with the same undiminishable excitement, lifting her off her feet and twirling her around as she squeals and clings to me even tighter. I never want this feeling to end. I never want to know what it feels like not to hold her in my arms.

The world stops again, but for a different reason this time. The world stops and allows me to immortalize this memory, to lose myself in her smell and her laughter and the way she holds on to me as if she’s afraid of being forgotten. Or maybe she’s afraid that someday she’ll be swept away by the tide and washed out to sea, to live as a faceless character in a hazy story that I keep locked away deep inside, so nobody knows the true extent of the pain I’d live with if I ever lost her.

But I could never forget Cali. Never in a million years.

When I set her back down, she wields a high-voltage smile despite being slightly breathless, and her hair is tousled around her blanched face.

I pull her so she’s flush with my chest, brushing my lips over hers without fully caving into a kiss—because once I start, there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to stop. “You know what this means, right?”

She gasps into my mouth, steadying her hands over my hastening heart. “What?”

“I’m booking you a tattoo session.”