Page 177 of Monstrous Serpent

Fuck them.

Because I only care about my family and the two dipshits sitting in the stands across the ice.

Doyle drops down next to me and lifts his helmet. “Dude, you don't even look winded. My legs feel like jelly.”

“Yeah, well, my boyfriend has been torturing me for two months. Do not recommend.”

When the doctor finally cleared me to skate again in late February—no contact, just conditioning—Hunter took that as permission to ruin my life. His training plan involved a lot of throwing up. Swear if I didn't puke at least once, he wasn't satisfied. Even caught him smiling the one time I drank too much water beforehand and puked so hard it looked like a goddamn exorcism.

Can’t be too mad about it now. Not when I'm the only one on my line who isn't gassed.

“The fuck are your little brother and Trembley doing?”

I look across the ice and groan as Atlas hip-checks Davis, who goes flying into my dad’s side. But my little brother comes right back, jumping sideways, throwing his whole body into Atlas. Of course, my boyfriend pulls Davis’s shirt over his head and fakes throwing punches.

Doyle laughs. “Your dad and Kincaid look like they're about to kill the two of them.”

He’s not—wait, no.

My gaze bounces between Hunter and my dad. “Oh, come on. Why does my boyfriend have ‘the dad look’ on his face!”

Doyle starts laughing, and even worse, fucking Connor chuckles too.

“Good fucking job out there, Henneman,” Nieminen says.

“Which one?” Ryan smirks at our coach.

Connor snorts. “Fucking smart ass.”

Nieminen’s lips press into a tight line. “I wasn’t talking to your husband. Not when we’re still down by two.”

I put my water bottle back on the shelf, shaking my head. “Still weird as fuck that you both have the same name now.”

“Don’t give a fuck what you think.” Connor leans forward, watching the play on the ice. “But nice goal earlier.”

“Thanks.”

It’s our only goal so far. Wasn’t the prettiest, but fuck, if I hadn’t scored, we’d be down by three.

Out on the ice, our second line's getting hemmed in our zone. I lean forward. “Their fucking left winger keeps cheating up. See him?”

“He's been doing that shit all game,” Connor says.

Our defenseman tries to rim it around the boards, but Western Michigan's winger intercepts.

I spit the excess water in my mouth onto the floor. “Someone needs to put him on his ass.”

“Knight will handle it next shift.”

“Why not your husband? He’s been a fucking beast out there all game.”

Connor doesn’t respond, just keeps focusing on the game where Western Michigan’s defenseman winds up for a slap shot.

“Screen!” Connor and I call it at the same time as their center plants himself right in Novotny's face.

The shot goes high, clanging off the crossbar, the sound echoing through the arena.

Fuck, that was close.