Page 27

We board the plane, a familiar process: a parade of players lugging carry-ons into the cabin and stuffing bags into overhead storage. Jax claims the window seat, and I drop into the aisle next to him, my duffel sliding beneath the seat.

Lincoln leans across the aisle, eyes sharp with curiosity. "Kind of brave, you calling out fans like that."

His words hang between us, prompting recollections of my impromptu speech. The raw charge of it clings to me, a fusion of anger and obligation. "Wasn't brave. It was necessary."

Hayes takes a seat nearby, stretching his long legs into the limited space. "Most people don't risk alienating their own fans."

"I don't play for assholes," I reply simply, with no hesitation, no regret. A woman went to the hospital because people thought violence was an acceptable expression of loyalty, as if smashing bottles is a fan's job. Not in my world it ain't.

The plane takes off, the ascent pressing me back against the seat. I feel the adrenaline's retreat, fatigue seeping into my sore and tired body in its place.

I close my eyes, and my thoughts slip to Anna. Earlier, I caught a glimpse of her cracking a half smile when her friends' heads turned toward her in the car, caught between frustration and perhaps affection. Stitches framed her eyebrow, an emblem of survival against stupidity. Her words were razor-edged, and I can't shake them.

"Thank you, Doc Hockey. I'll take that under advisement." The way she rolled her eyes, irritation and amusement mingling. That flicker of heat before she turned her gaze away, like she knew how to throw a jab and expected me to take it.

Jax clears his throat, and I open my eyes. He's holding up his phone, a picture of Anna between Kilovac and Faulker on a beach somewhere. "Does Anna look different in Brooklyn?"

"Pictures show polish," I explain roughly. "Face to face, she's sharp but real. Not anything close to this photo."

He chuckles knowingly. "You sound more interested than surprised, Rez."

I brush the notion aside. "She's intriguing."

Lincoln's laughter drifts over. "That's enough for some people to write sonnets."

I give him a dry stare. "Not me."

Outside, the night deepens. Inside the cabin, the overhead lights dim as we've slipped into routine, a crew settling in for hours of sleep or distraction while we wait to descend into Dallas.

Attention returns to hockey, conversations about strategies and plays trickling through the lulls. I listen and engage when Donovan or Bennett share insights we may not have had time to discover yet, but my mind drifts to her.

The photograph posted on social media flits into my mind. The Fight Stays On The Ice. A declaration, not a temporary performance but a permanent stance. Whatever else, fans shouldn't let emotion breach safety, especially for unsuspecting people.

"You checked your messages?" Jax asks, wiping imaginary dust from his knees.

I shake my head. "Haven't turned on my phone."

"So you're⁠—"

I cut him off. "You want to talk about my nonexistent love life or yours?"

"Point made." He leans back, closes his eyes, and settles in.

"That's what I thought," I murmur.

At the hotel, check-in goes smoothly. One benefit of traveling from one city to another is late-night check-ins. I head to my room, unpack essentials, hang my suit, and set tomorrow's workout clothes out. Stress-free setup.

Now, time to wash off the hospital and airplane stank.

Under the steady stream of water, eyes closed, I picture the blush on her face and feel heat building low in my gut.

I brace one hand against the wet tile, let my head tip forward, water running down my neck and back. The image of Anna sharpens: her smart mouth, the slight curve of that half-smile, the way her eyes cut at me.

My hand wraps around my cock, already half-hard. I stroke slow, deliberate, thumb sliding over the head, spreading the slickness gathering there. A rough exhale pushes out of me, fogging briefly in the steam.

I tighten my grip and set a rhythm, dragging my fist from base to tip, twisting at the crown the way I like. My hips flex forward into my grip, thigh muscles tensing. The wet slapping sound is obscene in the small space, mixing with the spray against the tile.

I think about her sharp jaw, the stitches above her eyebrow. What it would feel like to trace them with my thumb.