The Worst Kind of Promise (Riverside Reapers Book 2)

KIT

I pray to God that Faye for once listens to me and stays in that bathroom. Fisting a bottle of water, I carve my way through a throng of people before stopping dead center in front of some of my teammates. I usually prefer to keep my social circle small, only talking to the rest of the guys when we’re at practice or during games.

Zaven, one of our fastest skaters, waves me over to the small group he’s formed. He’s flanked on either side by KJ, a forward, and Sailor, a huge-ass defenseman. I’m surprised to see Sailor in a social setting considering he’s one of the most closed off people I’ve ever met. As for KJ, that guy practically breathes parties, so it makes sense that he’s taking advantage of the endless flow of drinks.

I don’t want to look like an ass, but I really don’t have time to talk. I give them all a stern nod before turning my back toward them, but that’s when realization barrels up my spine. Whenever I see KJ, he’s always equipped with liquid courage or…drugs.

Fuck. I should’ve known. There’s no one else on our team that indulges in drugs at parties during the off-season as much as KJ. He’s smart enough to stay away from them during the actual season, which is why he hasn’t gotten his ass suspended from the NHL.

I promised Faye I’d come back. I’m just making a quick detour, okay? This little confrontation will be drama-free and over in less than a minute.

I don’t think I realize how truly furious I am when I drop the drink, roughly turn KJ in his stupid hat toward me, and clock him directly in the face. My knuckles ache to hit him again, gouts of blood already clinging to reddened skin—whether it’s mine or his, I have no idea. And I don’t care. His head snaps backwards, and even Zaven’s inhumanly fast reflexes can’t stop me from breaking cartilage in another unrestrained hit. There’s a nauseating squelch of bone and muscle, followed by panicked shouts whaling on me from all directions.

Adrenaline blots every sound out. The only noises I can focus on are the blood echoing in my ears and the beat of my heart resonating deep in my chest. The rage localizing in my belly kicks into high gear, prompting me to flick my hand out and re-curl it, but before I can give KJ a matching shiner to go with his newly broken nose, somebody jerks my arm back.

“Enough!”

I expect Hayes to be the one on the other end of that arm, but it’s Bristol.

Stock-still, fist suspended in the air, my eyes peruse the massacre on KJ’s face—the rivulets of blood shooting down his nose, splattering the ground in vermillion raindrops, and the purpling bruise stippling his cheekbone. The whole party has come to a complete stop, scandalized whispers shared amongst gaping mouths. The skin on the back of my hand smarts as ichor races down my forearm, slathering my mapwork of tattoos.

Bristol releases my hand with a growl, his lips wrested back from bared teeth. “What the fuck is going on here?”

KJ cups his face. “He just came up and hit me!”

“If you ever fuck with her again, I’ll take my skate and slit your throat with it,” I spit, halfway to launching myself at him again. My traps and delts stiffen, the heat from my internal rage consolidating. I want to hit him again. I don’t care if people get it on camera. What was he thinking giving drugs to someone like Faye? Someone vulnerable and impressionable and clearly not in her right mind.

KJ’s hand falls away, giving everyone a good view of his bloodied, skewed nose. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he hisses.

Bristol stands between us, vexation tugging at every corner of his expression, a six-foot-two fixture keeping me and KJ from scratching each other’s faces off like wild animals. “I don’t care what the fuck is going on. You two are teammates. If you have a problem, you come to me. Do you understand?”

KJ’s groan morphs into a nasally whine. “He start—”

“Do you understand?”

I don’t remember the last time I saw Bristol so mad. Face red, muscles wired, the vein in his forehead pulsing, looking about seconds away from throwing both our asses into the cold pool.

“Yes,” KJ accepts without protest, that faux bravado from his voice long gone. The bleeding seems to have slowed, and the colorful contusions have started to soak into his skin.

When Bristol’s eyes flash toward me, I rival his glare with my own. “You wouldn’t be saying this shit if you knew what he—”

“Langley!” Bristol barks in warning, so loud that he could probably be heard from inside the house. He’s coming to me as my captain, not my friend.

The audience we’ve collected waits for my response, and maybe some of them even jones for another brawl to break out. What are they all looking at? Don’t they have anything better to do?

My teeth are set on edge when I eventually relent. “Understood.”

With Bristol keeping both of us at bay, he commands the crowd to disperse in that authoritative tone he only uses on the ice. A few complaints linger in the air as the stubborn shamble of feet commences, the invisible spotlight overhead snuffing out, freeing me from any more scrutiny.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Bristol orders, his mouth still stuck in a sneer, a continuation of steam hissing out of his flared nostrils and ears.

I don’t have anything to say. I shouldn’t have punched KJ. Or maybe I should’ve, but I should’ve been more discreet about it. Less than a minute and drama-free, right?

KJ’s crew helps him toward the house—accompanied by Bristol—and when I turn around, I’m struck by the sight of Faye and Hayes in front of me.

Faye, with her pale face, and Hayes, with his you-better-start-talking face, both staring at me, expecting an answer I can’t give them.

Fuck me.