The Cruelest Kind of Hate (Riverside Reapers Book 3)

GAGE

“Okay, remember what we talked about,” I debrief Teague, looking down at him in his adorably oversized hockey gear.

“When my sister comes to pick me up, I make a goal and show her how good I’ve gotten,” he recites back to me, readjusting the helmet that doesn’t quite sit right on his head.

I twirl around the whistle hanging from my neck—yes, I bought it just for this occasion—and nod. “Because?”

“Because you’re going to make a bet with her.”

“About?”

Teague sighs, the smile on his face flatlining. “About me making the winning goal in my next game,” he mumbles, his voice curling with dubiety.

My eyebrows draw together. “Hey, hey. No gloom and doom, okay? You can do it, buddy. I know you can.”

“Coach Gage, I know you mean well, but we’ve only had a few lessons together. I don’t think I’ll be able to make the winning goal.”

I feel for the little guy. Teague has heart, which is something a lot of hockey players lack. He’s determined, but he refuses to forgive himself when it comes to his mistakes. He puts a lot of pressure on himself for someone who’s only playing youth hockey. I want to help him feel confident in his skills, but I think it’ll be hard for him to celebrate any improvement since he’s lived so long punishing himself for not being “good enough.”

I blame everything on the fucking snot-nosed twerps picking on him. When I was his age, I played hockey for fun. I wasn’t focused on going pro. But I can tell Teague takes the game a lot more seriously than I did. I’m worried that he’ll grow up and regret treating hockey like a job rather than a hobby.

I crouch down to Teague’s height—with surprisingly little resistance since Cali’s been helping me stretch—and lower my voice to a gentle register, pride humming in my heart louder than the resounding pucks in play around us. “You’ve improved so much, T. I know you don’t see it, but I do. All I ask of you is that you try your best and have fun. There’s no pressure to make any winning goal, even though your sister would shit her pants to see you do so.”

I’ve never really liked kids. I mean, I don’t hate them, but I never looked at one and thought to myself, Wow. That kid is adorable. I want to have six for myself and make my own hockey team, then name them all different L names that sound eerily similar to one another.

But Teague’s brought out some weird paternal feeling inside of me that I never knew existed before. He reminds me a lot of my brother.

“Cali says you shouldn’t say that word,” Teague reprimands, trying his best to look all serious with a pouty frown.

“Cali’s not here right now,” I say, winking at him. “You can say it as much as you want around me. Shit doesn’t even begin to scrape the tip of the iceberg, Little Man. My personal favorite cuss word is cunt.”

Teague clutches his stick to his chest. “What’s a cunt?” he asks innocently.

My favorite food.

I bite back a grin, but I lose when a chuckle climbs up my throat. “It’s another word for butt face.”

God, I love poisoning the minds of the youth.

“Ooh, there are a lot of butt faces on my hockey team.”

“There are a lot on mine too,” I agree, mentally picturing Dilbert and his punchable face, then picturing me punching said face. Then picturing Cali giving me a whopping kiss in front of everyone and chanting, “My hero!”

Teague looks down at his skates. “Can we…maybe go over the play one more time?” His voice is small, picked apart by a timidness that I wish he didn’t feel around me.

“Of course we can. Remember what we discussed, yeah? Don’t be afraid of the puck. I know it can be scary when you get that sucker in front of you, but indecisiveness will only slow you down. If you have a clear shot of the goal, don’t give the puck up too soon. Try to follow through, even if you’re scared. And when you are forced to give up the puck, make sure you look for options before blindly coughing it up.”

Teague nods, but I’m not sure how much of that he retained. Or how much made sense. I’ve never coached anyone before—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I want to make him proud. I want to show Cali that I take her and her brother seriously. So here’s to hoping my advice holds some merit.

I position myself in front of the goal, tightening my hands around my stick and praying that my decision not to suffocate myself with goalie pads won’t result in another injury. My hip’s feeling better, but I’m not a hundred percent yet.

Teague slugs over to the center line, shuffling the puck inch by inch with his blade before bumbling to get it in front of him. As soon as I blow the whistle, Teague’s whole body whisks into offense mode, and he treads across the ice as if it’s an active war zone, closing in on the goal unbelievably slowly despite there being no outside opposition. If this is how slow he moves without being under pressure, I don’t want to know what pace he moves at during a real game.

He’s actually so far away that my muscles loosen from their defensive bind, and I stand up straight, guessing that he’ll make it to me within two to three business days.

“Don’t be afraid, T! Show that puck who’s boss!” I shout.

His head snaps up at my encouragement. Something switches inside him, emboldening him to pick up his skates and charge the goal, and he gets closer to me before swinging his stick back and slapping the puck toward the net.

Granted, he did directly aim for the middle instead of the harder-to-defend corners, but I think that was the first time I saw him place any belief in his stick. I block his shot without having to strain my hip much, and Teague’s shoulders slump in disappointment.

“I suck!” he exclaims, his tone nearing teary territory that I’m definitely not equipped to handle. He falls onto his butt as worked-up breaths sail out of his helmet’s cage.

“No, you don’t.” I skate over to him and join him on the ground, clapping him on the back. “You’re still learning. And the best advice I can give you is to be easy on yourself. I know how frustrating it can be when you don’t get things on the first try, but you can’t keep beating yourself up over common mistakes.”

He sniffs. “You don’t make mistakes.”

HA. Oh, sweet, sweet Teague.

“All the time,” I reply, a good-natured smile working its way onto my mouth. “In fact, I’ve probably made a thousand more mistakes than you have.”

“Really?”

“Really. Sometimes I suck at tracking the puck, and I end up thinking I can block a shot just based on my peripheral vision. It’s cost my team a lot of losses.”

Teague throws his arms up. “But you’re a professional hockey player!”

A tepid warmth like the tail end of summer consolidates in my chest, birthing different kinds of butterflies in my stomach. “Even professionals make mistakes.”

I’ve never had someone look up to me before. It feels…weird. I’m barely responsible for myself, and now I feel this responsibility to make Teague proud. It freaks me out. I can’t have Teague looking up at me with all this hero worship. That’s how my brother used to look at me. And I failed him in the end. It’s just a matter of time until I repeat the same process with Teague.

Thankfully, Cali steps onto the ice and saves me from my overactive thoughts, wearing her signature ponytail and a new zip-up hoodie to stave off the cold.

“Keep practicing your shooting,” I tell him, hopping so quickly to my feet that a concerning stab lances up my hip, but the unmitigated yearning to inhale Cali’s cinnamon scent and feel her pliable body in my arms makes me disregard my injury’s outcry.

I teleport over to her, eliciting a gasp from her even though she saw me coming from miles away.

“Jesus. I really need to put a bell on you,” she mutters.

“You can put whatever you want on me.”

When she crosses her arms over her chest, her apricot ponytail flicks behind her. “You use that line on all the girls you schmooze?”

“No girls, Spitfire. Just you,” I flirt, feeling warmth incinerate every inch of my body. Every time I think I have a handle on my nerves, they slip out of my grasp.

“What makes me so special?” There’s a joking bite to her tone, and I wish she could see herself the way I see her.

It’s like the stars handpicked her to carry on their legacy, to deem her worthy enough to be the bright light in my life, scaring away the darkness and desolation from the corners of my mind.

“How much time do you have?”

A blush assails the apples of her cheeks, turning her complexion my favorite shade of pink, and she rolls her eyes and tries to ease the spotlight off herself.

“How’s he doing?” she asks, peering over my shoulder to watch Teague toy with the puck. The concern burnished in her gaze makes my belly somersault. Cali’s a great big sister, and I’m going to help her see that.

“He’s good. He’s just working through some confidence issues,” I disclose, matching her line of sight and tracking his small figure as he lands a shot in the net.

She doesn’t say anything, which makes me briskly turn back to her. Her nose is scrunched in displeasure, and her bottom lip begins to wobble.

“Don’t do that.”

She throws me a look of utter confusion. “Do what?”

“Blame yourself for something you can’t control.”

Cali huffs in a knee-jerk response, carefully crafting her next set of words to exempt herself from a possible lecture. “I’m not…blaming…myself,” she insists.

I lean my chin on the butt of my hockey stick, pulling my eyebrows together incredulously.

Approach with caution, Gage. You stick your hand in that enclosure, and she’ll tear it right off your body.

“Cali, your lower lip trembles every time you get in your head.” I sigh, wanting nothing more than to steady her mouth with my own—to alleviate her worries and swallow the self-deprecating comments that wait on the bed of her tongue.

Her fingers fling to her lips in betrayal, and her whole frame droops. “I just worry about him.”

“I know you do, Spitfire. But you have to trust that he’ll find his way on his own.”

She perks her head back up to witness Teague sinking another goal, and she remedies her distress with a meek half-smile. “I guess he does look like he’s getting better,” she notes.

Uh, that’s just because nobody is in the goal.

“He’s improved a lot,” I brag, lifting my head off my stick and puffing my chest out.

“Oh, really?”

“First off, your tone is hurtful. Second off, he has. He’s gotten so good that I bet you he’ll make the winning shot of his next game.”

Was that a good bet to make? No. Do I have anything to lose? Just my dignity, and that’s already been reduced to the size of a pea. I have full faith in Teague that he’ll play better in his upcoming game than he ever has before. Goal-worthy better? That’s…debatable. All very possible if he remembers what we’ve gone over—situational awareness, confidence, shooting, the good ol’ have fun out there, champ.

Cali gives me a dick-wetting once-over, dragging her tongue over the front of her teeth. “What are we betting?”

I should back out now. A smart man would acknowledge when he’s lost and save himself from further humiliation. I am not a smart man.

“If Teague makes the winning shot of his next game, you have to get my jersey number tattooed on you,” I drawl, already scoping out the spots on her body that would be fucking perfect for my number.

None of that discreet tattoo shit. The side of her hip. Her upper back. The space between her breasts. God, her fucking ass. That’s a million-dollar tattoo. Hell, I’d buy her a private island off Maui to breathe that image into existence.

She laughs in my face. Bends over, does the thing where the laugh turns silent, and then starts swatting the air. Thankfully, her theatrics don’t alert the other hockey-goers, but my God, does this woman abuse my ego like a mail deliveryman throwing around a UPS package.

“I love my brother, but there’s no way in hell that’s happening,” she says, and as much as I want to prove her wrong and shut her bratty mouth, I can’t help but love the sound of her melodic laughter.

“It will. Just you watch.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll dress up in high heels and do a choreographed dance of your choosing during our last game of the season.”

She ponders the two outcomes, and I’m not sure if she’s been mind-wiped by aliens—or if the possibility of Teague not only making a shot, but making the winning shot is so unbelievable—but she sticks out her hand for us to shake on it.

“Deal.”

I slap my hand against hers as a smirk tests the edges of my lips. “I hope you’re not a sore los⁠—”

“Guys, watch this!” Teague calls out to us, doing a little wiggle before kicking into high gear and speeding right toward the unoccupied goal.

The puck’s in his possession, he has a clear shot, and I’m about to do a victory fist pump in the air for the obvious talent I’ve bestowed upon him…right before he trips over his dominant leg and goes crashing to the ice.