Page 33 of Keeping Score

I locked it up and kept the key tucked safely away from anyone who might try to snatch it out from under me.

Because I already knew what it felt like to love and be left anyway. And I didn’t like the way a heart felt when it bled.

Chapter Eight

Brody

Ifucking loved hockey.

Where else could I watch from the goalie net as a guy I hated got absolutely pummeled by my best friend?

Nowhere.

Unless I joined some type of backstreet alley fighter gang—which I’d thought about, but ultimately decided wouldn’t be a good fit for me. I’d spent too many years in braces to take the risk of someone knocking out any of my teeth at this stage.

The best friend in question was currently slamming a rival team member against the plexiglass, no doubt seriously provoked, because Liam tried not to get into fights anymore. Especially when he knew his kid was watching.

“Get him, Liam!” I called from across the ice.

I watched as he sucker-punched Stevenson into submission, and I laughed. The guy was a jerk. Always playing offensive. Always trying to go for low blows.

He was well overdue for everything Liam was dishing out to him.

It took a minute before the refs stepped in, allowing Liam the chance to finish it on his terms. He’d already decided it was over by the time they officially broke it up.

Stevenson was a little bloody, Liam was royally pissed, and they stuck both of them in the penalty box to cool off.

Liam’s scowling face lit up on the Jumbotron as the crowd roared behind me. When it panned to Stevenson’s face, already swelling, the volume of the arena grew even louder.

Boston was metal as hell—I’d give them that. There was nothing they loved quite as much as a good hockey fight.

And we really hadn’t been serving on that front in a while.

The rest of the game passed by in a blur, and when it came time for post-game interviews, Liam was still carrying the chip on his shoulder that had been there all night.

“How do you feel after the win tonight?” a young interviewer asked, shoving the microphone up in Liam’s face.

They were either too naïve or too arrogant to be testing Liam’s patience when he was already in a mood. Hell, maybe they wanted to get their own bruise courtesy of the notorious Harbor Wolves captain.

Like I always said, hockey fans were weird.

“Tired,” Liam responded in a clipped tone, leaving little room for the newbie to work with.

The interviewer shuffled on their feet, laughing off the comment before continuing.

“You and Stevenson really got into it earlier. Bad blood there, or just the adrenaline of the game?”

“Does it matter?” Liam retorted, eyebrows raised at the kid, daring him to ask another question.

I shot Liam a look, confused by the irritation bleeding through his words. It was a side of him I hadn’t seen in a few years but had been slipping through the cracks more often lately.

These Brynns of mine—they could be testy when they wanted to.

Leaping into the frame of the camera, I made a joke about how our temperamental captain needed to go take a shower and swiftly took over the rest of his questions in a seamless transition.

Liam didn’t deserve any bad press just because he was in a shitty mood, and besides, I was much funnier than he was anyway.

At least according to the TikTok edits. Liam had me beat with thirst traps, sure, but when it came to comedic edits, I’d gotten everyone beat by miles.