Rhys
Kayden had fallen. He had been blatantly tripped; one of the Westbridge defensemen had stuck out a leg on purpose, sending Kayden sprawling hard onto the frozen surface.
He slid several feet, his stick skittering away toward the boards, and for a terrifying second, he didn't move.
My first instinct was to act fast by slamming the defenseman, but I remembered what had happened last night and didn't want a repeat.
I ignored the impulse and clenched my fists tightly because all I could think of was burying my knuckles into the throat of whoever had touched him.
I took two hard strides toward the man, my vision blurring with rage. The thought of smashing my stick over his head reoccurred in my mind, but I held back.
I remembered the words Kayden had told me the last time we spoke.
I seethed, my chest heaving as I watched the Falcons defenseman look down at Kayden and let out a short, mocking laugh.
