Page 73 of Make Me Mean It

“Now we’re talking.”

Davey comes at me, and I meet him halfway, the rink erupting around us. A whistle shrieks over the crowd, gloves and sticks scatter across the ice and bodies slam together as one fight becomes three, maybe four. Someone crashes into my back. A hand catches my jersey and disappears just as quickly. There’s shouting everywhere, skates carving against the ice, the crowd losing its mind behind the glass.

None of it matters, my attention narrowing to Davey still in front of me.

We go down hard, my hip cracking against the ice before my shoulder follows, but I land on top and get one good swing in before he twists beneath me. His fist bunches in my jersey and yanks, taking my balance with it, and then we’re rolling across the ice with fists flying wherever there’s something to hit.

After that, I stop keeping track of who lands what. Davey catches me somewhere near the temple, knocking my vision sideways, and I taste blood when I grin and throw myself back into him. My knuckles are split, my ribs fucking hurt, and for the first time all week there’s nothing in my head except the next hit.

Fucking finally.

He jerks beneath me, struggling against my hold on him.

“Had enough?” I spit, breath sawing in and out of my lungs.

Davey answers by grabbing a fistful of my jersey and hauling me down, our foreheads nearly colliding as I steady myself against the ice. My skates scrape for purchase while he tries to roll us, but I wrench myself back over him and draw my arm behind me.

My fist is already coming down when an arm locks around my stomach.

I’m hauled backwards, my skates leaving the ice, my fist cutting through empty air as Davey disappears out of reach.

“Knock it off,” Marcus growls against my ear, his arm locking around me, hauling me upright and pinning my back to his chest.

I thrash against him, throwing my elbow back, but he shifts out of the way before I can connect and locks me down tighter.

“Knox.”

His voice cuts through, but Davey is still right there, blood on his face while two of his teammates try to drag him away, and I wrench forward again.

Marcus barely gives me an inch.

“Knox,” he barks, hauling me back against him before giving me one hard shake. “Enough.”

I suck in a breath, ready to fight him too, but it sticks in my chest and comes out rough. The next one hurts worse, my chest heaving against Marcus’s arms while the roar in my ears starts separating into actual noise again.

Blood slips from my knuckles and spatters red between my skates.

I sag back into Marcus before catching myself, planting my skates beneath me as I drag my tongue across my teeth. Blood coats the inside of my mouth, thick and metallic, and I spit it onto the ice before tapping my knuckles against his forearm.

“I’m good,” I rasp.

Marcus doesn’t move, his hold barely loosening.

“I said I’m good.”

He keeps me there long enough for irritation to start crawling back beneath my skin, before his arms finally loosen and I pull away.

“You’re done.”

I whip round to face him. “What?”

“Get off the fucking ice.”

The anger I’d barely managed to get under control flares straight back up. “The fuck I am. I didn’t even start it.”

Marcus gives me that look.

That fucking captain look he’s perfected over the years, all hard blue eyes and try me without having to say a word. Usually it’s enough to make everyone else on the team fall into line.