Free Empty Net by Avon Gale Page A

luck.
    The Spitfires won the game, 4-0, and for the first time, the whole team skated down the ice to give Laurent his helmet taps. Isaac was wearing his Spitfires cap, but he went out on the ice too.
    Even Coach Samarin couldn’t quite keep his expression neutral when he gave Laurent a restrained pat on the back as he came in from the ice—unlike Coach Ashford, who enthusiastically knocked Laurent between the shoulder blades with a wide grin.
    “Man, Saint,” Hux said to Laurent when they were getting ready to head to the hotel. “Those fuckers do not like you.”
    “They don’t like anything,” Laurent said. “My fa—their coach makes sure they don’t.” He paused. “I don’t like them very much either.”
    Isaac was proud of him for saying that, and the guys’ attitude thawed by a few more degrees.
    But Isaac knew Laurent was going to be a mess after what was arguably a successful game, because he saw the man waiting to speak with Laurent when they were leaving the locker room.
    Laurent, who’d fallen into step beside Isaac, looked not so much happy as grimly satisfied, which was better than his usual pissed-off expression. Isaac took a chance and bumped him with his shoulder. “Dude, that was awesome, Saint. You were great.”
    And Laurent turned to him with an actual smile and said, “Thanks.”
    Goddamn. He was so hot.
    A cold voice interrupted Isaac’s admiration of his sort-of friend and fellow teammate.
    “Laurent. I expect a word with you.”
    Isaac’s entire body went rigid as he saw St. Savoy step out of the shadows toward his son and reach out for Laurent’s arm. And he reacted before he could think about it and stepped neatly in front of Laurent, even though St. Savoy, Sr. had just as many inches on Isaac as his son.
    Fuck that shit. Isaac would show St. Savoy, Sr. what it meant to be scrappy. “We’ve got to catch the bus,” Isaac said, which wasn’t the most brilliant thing he could have come up with, but he was too keyed up by St. Savoy’s sudden appearance.
    “I will speak to my son,” St. Savoy said, snidely and looked down his bulbous, stupid nose at Isaac.
    “It’s fine,” Laurent muttered next to him.
    “Seriously. We’ll be late. Don’t want to make Coach mad.” Because Isaac had never learned when to keep his mouth shut, he added, “We respect our coach enough to do what he says and follow the rules.”
    Lamest jab ever, but it was something.
    Laurent had inherited nothing from his unattractive father but his height and build, and St. Savoy, Sr. had eyes that were nowhere as rich a brown as his son. They were also cold and beady. And mean. Isaac hated him, because bullies pissed him off.
    St. Savoy said something in French, and Laurent actually reached out and pushed Isaac aside—and not nicely. Isaac didn’t speak French, so he didn’t know what it was, or what Laurent said back to him. But he did know what it meant when Laurent said, “Leave it alone, Drake.” Return of the Prick, apparently.
    There was only so much he could do. St. Savoy was Laurent’s father, and Laurent used that sneering, dickhead voice, but his eyes gave a different, far more desperate message. Please leave it alone.
    “Okay. But you better be on the bus. You don’t want to have to walk.” Isaac hated leaving him there, but he didn’t want to give St. Savoy, Sr. any more reason to be mad at his son.
    “Laurent is staying at home tonight,” his father said. He gave Isaac a disgusted stare. “My son doesn’t need to—”
    “Ah, Drake. St. Savoy. There you are.” He heard Coach Samarin’s voice, even and smooth, as he moved toward them. “Please get on the bus so we can go to the hotel.”
    “Samarin, you can’t stop me from speaking with my own son,” St. Savoy, Sr. snapped.
    Coach Samarin looked at Denis St. Savoy as if he were nothing but a bug on the bottom of his shoe. “The bus. Both of you. Now.”
    Isaac took a step, but Laurent’s father reached out and grabbed