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“You’re an asshole.” She dropped her gloves, chest heaving and then realized the guys were staring at her in silence.
In fact the entire arena was silent.
She groaned as she shifted her weight and frowned as pain rolled down her side. Logan had hold of Seth’s jersey, and both of them stared down at the ice—something in their eyes pulled her gaze down as well.
“Fuck,” she muttered hoarsely.
She was standing in a circle of blood.
Yeah, Billie-Jo Barker didn’t do blood real well.
Chapter Twelve
Logan wasn’t sure how he didn’t pound Seth Longwood into the ice. He sure as hell thought about it. Visualized it. The need was there. The strength. The determination. The fucking anger.
He thought of Seth and his blood boiled once more. The asshole was the only guy in the league who still played with a wooden stick. Everyone else had graphite. He was betting Longwood was more than aware his stick needed tape, and that the edge was ruined.
Logan had just cleared the ice after finishing the third period—Billie had insisted on that—and he glanced toward the Whalers dressing room as he stalked by, his hands fisted, his expression fierce. He’d deal with Seth later, but at the moment, he had to be sure Billie was all right.
Dammit, why the hell had he left her alone on the ice?
[i]Because she gets under my skin and I hate that she doesn’t listen to me[i].
“You check on Billie, I’m gonna have a few words with the Whalers.” Shane’s voice was deadly and the look in his eyes more so. Strombley and Danvers were just behind him, as well as—surprise, surpr
ise—Mike Dearling.
All of the men looked pissed as hell. Logan nodded, “Will do.” Heck, his first priority was Barker, so if the men wanted to take care of business, he was more than fine with it.
He eyed Shane. “Make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
Shane slapped his hand on the Whalers dressing room door. “Don’t worry about me, just check on Billie.”
Logan whipped his helmet off and without asking permission, pushed her room door open. He tossed his helmet to the side and took a few steps in, suddenly feeling unsure as his eyes took in the scene before him.
His brother Connor had run in after her, because hey, why call a doctor for stitches when a veterinarian was around.
Billie stood with her back to Logan, in—sweet mother of God—boy shorts that did nothing but emphasize the fact that, Billie-Jo Barker, definitely was not a boy. Sure, they were athletic shorts, but when hugging an ass as shapely as hers, it was pretty hard to think of sports or hockey, or anything else for that matter.
Victoria’s Secret, maybe.
Slowly his eyes slid across toned thighs, and then down to her calves where—he scowled—several bruises were already forming from the cheap shots she’d taken.
“Gramps, is that you?”
Logan whipped his head up, only to meet his brother Connor’s gaze as Connor arched a brow and bent over to finish up the last stitch on her side. Billie was clad in what looked like a sports bra—and again, most bikinis showed a hell of a lot more than this get-up, but holy hell, a man could only take so much.
Logan wasn’t sure if he was all hot and bothered because he was pissed the Whalers had played so dirty, or the fact that Billie stood a few feet away wearing next to nothing, with his brother’s hands all over her.
And why the hell did Connor feel the need to cup her hip while he worked on that last stitch?
She twisted her head to the side, her long braid swinging back and forth like a pendulum…a pendulum that pointed downward.
Do not look at her ass.
“Gramps?”
She turned just enough to catch his eye and Logan cleared his throat, suddenly stuck with no words and a host of extremely inappropriate thoughts running through his head. Images of her lips gliding across his skin made him swallow hard as he met her gaze.
