Free Power Play (Center Ice Book 2) by Katherine Stark

it’s just getting good!”
    I shake my head. “Skittish source. Now or never. We can still do drinks afterward, if you want.”
    “Okay.” Her shoulders slump. “Good luck. Text me when you’re done.”
    I tug on my trench coat and head out to learn more about Marcus Wright’s lovelorn past.
    Or whatever it is he’s hiding.
     

 

     
     

     
     
    I am electrified tonight. I am Moses, parting the green sea of the Nashville Hunters. Whatever strange instinct Sergei drilled into me this morning, it is working beautifully. I see the plays opening up around me, and it’s like some kind of A Beautiful Mind action spinning around in my head. Plotting trajectories, knowing how the defense guys are gonna move, feeling the moment Sergei’s going to shoot before it actually happens.
    And the scoreboard shows it.
    Sergei’s got two goals and one assist; I’ve got one goal and two assists. We are a dynamic duo. When I hit the bench after a gruelingly long stretch of play, Coach Isaacs claps me on the shoulder and says, in his classic Canadian stoic tone, “Lookin’ good.”
    I’ll take it.
    And then there’s Fiona, watching me from the sweet seats I scored her and her friend. Her green eyes are dazzling as she watches—no lie, I make time to look at her, even when I’m on the ice. You can always tell when someone doesn’t quite get what’s happening, but she’s clapping and cheering, and asking her friend lots of questions, from what I can tell, so I know she’s trying.
    A whole arena of people screaming my name when I score. But all I hear is her, and that wonderful, breathy moan against my ear.
    I want to hear it again and again.
    Sometime around the middle of the game, though, she vanishes. At first I figure she’s just getting a refill on her drinks—girl seems to like her vodka martinis—but by the third period, she still hasn’t returned. Her friend keeps pulling out her phone to check her screen, like she’s worried about her, but if it was something that serious, wouldn’t her friend have left with her?
    Well, it’s none of my business. I just hope she’s okay. And that she’ll answer my texts after the game.
     
     

     
    By eleven o’clock, we’ve won 4-2, we’ve gotten our ritual post-game pumping-up and dressing-down from Coach Isaacs, I’ve given about three short media interviews, and the locker room is slowly emptying out. Drakonov was the first out the door, turning down Magnussen’s invitation to grab drinks at the Red Star (now under new management, since the previous owners turned out to be mobsters).
    “Sorry, my boys.” Drakonov winks. “I have the hottest date.”
    I cheer him on with the rest, and wish I could say the same.
    After my equipment’s all checked in, I consult my phone. Fi still hasn’t responded to my text from half an hour ago: Enjoy the view? I thumb out another query, offering to buy her drinks, but no thought bubbles appear to indicate a forthcoming response.
    “Hey, Marcus, lookin’ good tonight. Made me look good, too.” Brian Osbourne, our main goalie, nudges me in the back. “How about a beer?”
    “Sorry, man, already got plans.”
    The words are out of my mouth before I even think them. But I feel it—that itch under my skin. That monstrous thing, begging to be set free. I need it. I need to let it roam for a while, to tear up my flesh and consume me.
    I need Brimstone.
    God dammit.
    I slam my locker shut and press my face against the cool metal with a groan. No, no, no. I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. My muscles are already beat to shit. What I need is a good hot soak in my jumbo Jacuzzi tub, overlooking the Potomac, while I comfort my heartache with a fine glass of Green Hat gin and my piles of money.
    But no. Only Brimstone can soothe the particular brand of ache that I’m feeling.
    I tug my sweater overhead with a snarl and head out into Chinatown.
     
     

     
    Club Brimstone welcomes me like a cold embrace.
    Brimstone is sleek