What the fuck?
I bite down on my mouth guard and focus on the puck drop. The ref switches Goodwin out of the faceoff and Tate Myers takes his place. Tate’s quick, but against Theo…the odds are no longer in our favor.
“I’m gonna call you tiny dick from now on.”
My dick is anything but tiny and even if it was I have the added advantage of knowing that Molly Morrison never had that pleasure. Hook is on the hunt for a fight, and with all this charged energy searing through my veins, well, I’m fine being the one to give it to him.
“If you wanna go, Hook, just say so. You don’t need to make up some bullshit story about your former teammate’s sister just to rattle my cage.”
I’m almost on my ass before I know what hit me. He exploded like Mentos in Coke. But I plant my blades, straighten my spine, and… hesitate. If I drop my gloves and he doesn’t, I’ll get in shit—with the refs, with Coach, with my team…
But my pause is unwarranted. Hook flings his gloves onto the ice, and the crowd goes wild in the stands, whooping and cheering as he and I circle one another, unbuckling our helmets, preparing to strike.
He hits first, hard and fast, but I deflect it and throw back a punch of my own. Beads of sweat trickle down my temples, my neck, probably my ass crack. If I had tits I’d have under-boob sweat, too.
I can’t let him win. He represents everything I’m pissed at right now: my opponent, my ex, and he’s the blockade to the woman I want to do dirty things to until she’s coming and panting my name.
It takes a moment after the loud crack for the pain to hit and to realize he’s hit my jaw. That’s gonna leave a mark. I hit back in kind, hearing a satisfying crunch as his nose gives under my fist, and a trickle of blood weaves down his lip.
He strikes back, and his knuckles leave a gash over my eye. I’m blinking blood, my vision is swimming and red. Panic sets in. I’m ready to swing blind if I have to, but the lineswoman mercifully steps in and calls time on our fight, sending us both to the box to sit on the naughty step.
One of my teammates pats me on the back on my way across the ice, and I can’t tell from Coach’s scowl whether he’s pissed or thrilled—they both look the same on his inexpressive face.
It’s one of the highest penalty minute games I’ve ever seen, and by the final whistle I’m pretty sure the only people who didn’t get penalties were the coaching staff.
What a fucking riot.
We won, though. Barely. But we scraped the second win of the weekend. The team is loaded back on the bus, heading home to Iowa. My flight’s not until tomorrow morning though, so I hit up the bar, owing it to my teammates to have a drink to celebrate wiping the floor with the Snow Pirates on home ice.
Even if that means drinking by myself in a bar surrounded by said Snow Pirates. But this was my home turf before it was theirs, so they can fuck right off if they think because I’m a Raccoon I can’t drink in my hometown bar.
The bartender hands me an ice pack for my face—apparently the Snow Pirates have a full service bar. I kind of like it. We should invest in ice packs for behind the bar back home. I hiss, wincing as it connects with my stitches. Beer will help. A nice buzz will take the edge off my throbbing face.
The bartender places a beer in front of me. I haven’t spoken a word, and I’m starting to think this place runs on telepathy when he jerks his head to the left. Finn O’Brien tips his bottle to me and flashes a grin.
He’s such a dick. But he’s a dick who bought me a beer so I’m not complaining. Plus, I broke his friend’s nose, and I feel pretty good about that.
“Good game.” He takes a long pull from his bottle.
“You too.”
“It was fun to watch.” He grins again.
I wave the ice pack at him in case he forgot I have a busted up face.
He nods and takes another drink. “You deserved it.”
He can’t possibly know that’s the truth, but he’s also not wrong, I did deserve it. Lashing out at Savannah wasn’t my smartest move, and yet I haven’t apologized or tried to take it back. I’m right in my indignation—she shouldn’t need someone else’s permission to make a decision to date me. That’s completely fucked up. We’re consenting adults for crying out loud.
Finn turns to me, presumably because I stopped chirping back at him. “Girl trouble?”
I take a drink, trying not to react. I’m not sure how he’s managed to guess that I’m thinking about Savannah, but he’s too close to the mark, and I’m not getting all emotional with Finn five stitches O’Brien.
My fingers drift up to my forehead but stop short of touching the old scar. Five stitches and a fucking scar O’Brien. He whooped me pretty damn good when Molly stormed out of that restaurant after seeing me “cheat” on her.
“You just won back to back games against the reigning champs. It has to be a girl making you do those grunty noises.”
“Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”
