Crash Into Me (Into Me Series Book One)

Chapter Ten - Ice

Jackson's POV

I lace up my skate, pulling hard on the strings. It molds to my foot perfectly, hugging it snug. I stand up and feel my weight balance itself over the two blades beneath my feet. I grab my shoulder pads from my cubby and pull them on over my head. I slip my arms into my elbow pads and pull my jersey over my head.

"I got you," Connor says. I feel him grab the back of my jersey and attach it with the tie down to my pants.
"Thanks, man," I say, nodding. He turns around and I attach his jersey for him. He turns back to face me and I tuck his silver chain beneath his jersey and pads. He does the same for me.

We grab our helmets from our cubbies and start walking out of the locker room. Everyone talks excitedly as we near closer to the ice. Tensions have been wound tight lately... it'll be good for us to get some of the aggression out in a productive way. We file into the benches, dropping our extra sticks and equipment. I pull the covers off of the blades of my skates and jump over the wall, landing on the ice. I fasten my helmet on my head and push off, gliding across the ice.

I take a few laps around the rink, waking up my legs. My stick rests in my gloves, the familiar weight not even registering to me anymore. Connor cuts me off, laughing at me as I snap out of my trance and get covered in the snow.

Fucker.

He smirks at me as he takes off. That asshole has it coming to him. The rest of the team is on the ice now, warming up. Metallica plays over the speakers, the deep bass shaking the bones in my body. Tony takes his place in front of the net, practicing his blocks. I motion to him and he nods. I practice my slap shot on him getting my arms used to the movement. My muscles yell at me, still sore from my workout earlier. He blocks a few of my shots, but misses the vast majority. He's not a shitty goalie, I'm just a good shot.

The other team appears, the fucking desk jockeys of the FBI. The analysts, coders, researchers, file organizers, informants, etc, as well as some local police officers. You know, the ones with the easy ass jobs that get all the fucking recognition while the rest of us face fucking gunfire on the daily. I glare as they hop onto the ice, taking over their half of the rink. I make my way back over to the benches, grabbing a drink of my water. I slip my gloves off and grab my phone. I scroll through my text messages quickly, seeing if Jet has sent me anything, chewing lightly on my chain. That would be a no.

That girl has me so fucked up. I'm fucking screwed.

Shouting on the ice pulls my attention back to the real world. I look as Heath gets in the face of one of the desk jockeys. For fucks sake, kid. I pull my gloves back on and skate out onto the ice, towards the yelling. Desk jockey asshole shoves his finger into Heath's chest while yelling something about fucking his mom.

Heath is a mama's boy... this isn't going to end well.

More yelling ensues as Heath throws the first punch, a nice right hook to the jaw. Desk jockey guy stumbles back, trying to regain his balance as Heath winds up for another hit. Oh shit. I start skating faster.

"Gentlemen!" I yell.

Heath stops, dropping his arm back down to his side, looking over at me. I watch as desk jockey dude takes this opportunity to punch Heath across the face. Heath turns to look at the guy just as I grab the back of his shoulder pads, pulling him away from laying this guy out. Heath is a firey redhead... he will flip his shit when provoked.

"How about we save this for the game, yeah?" I say, looking between the young kid and the middle-aged desk jockey. No one ever told me that being the head of my unit was going to be all about babysitting egos. Heath continues to glare at desk jockey guy, who smirks back at him. "Heath..." I warn.