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“Where’s his penalty?” I demand angrily. “He just gets off scot-free? He can do whatever the hell he wants?”
“Two more minutes.”
Well, fuck me. I know that I shouldn’t have argued; I’m just in a crap mood right now.
I storm off to the penalty box and stand there, glowering. Beck is already there for the same thing. Fighting.
“Those assholes,” I snap.
“Shitheels. They’ve been getting away with shit all night long,” Beck grumbles in agreement. “The ref must be banging their coach’s mother.” I bark out a laugh, then settle back into a scowl again.
I glance across the ice to where Rowan is sitting, next to Cecelia. I was surprised to see her there earlier, because she didn’t tell me she’d be here. Not that she has any reason to tell me her schedule. I just would have expected a text telling me she was coming tonight, and not to eff up.
Too late for that, huh?
The seconds on the penalty tick by, and I’m still watching her. More fun than watching the crowd.
She looks good, as always, flipping her shining strawberry-blond hair out of her face, laughing at something Cecelia said.
Beck follows my gaze. He nods to himself. “Dibs,” he says.
For some reason, that pisses me off even more than being cross-checked.
“She’s my publicist. You can’t call dibs,” I growl.
He looks again and whistles. “That’s her? The one you said was totally busting your balls? Wow. You forgot to mention she’s smokin’ hot. Well, I still call dibs. Because she’s wearing my jersey, not yours. So ...” He looks at me and smirks.
She’s wearing his jersey? The hell?
Not that it mattered.
But ... the hell? Shouldn’t she be wearing mine?
She’s standing up now, shouting at the players, hands cupped around her face.
And as she turns, I see that Beck is right. She is wearing his number, not mine.
A hot feeling brews in my stomach, but she can wear whatever jersey she wants, I guess. Just like I could have any publicist I want—like Amanda. I could still ask for Amanda.
But I won’t. And I know I’m being petty and childish.
The penalty is over, and I skate out of the box and “accidentally” knock the Megs left defenseman on his ass. He scrambles to his feet, shouting curses at me, and I grin.
Oops, my bad. And the ref didn’t catch it this time.
The rest of the game, I’m in a pissy mood. I get in fights left and right, I get another penalty, my mood is off, and the crowd seems to feel it too, because the cheering isn’t as loud now and my teammates are giving me dirty looks.
“What. The. Fuck,” Beck snaps at me as we sit on the bench.
“I don’t know, what the fuck?” I snap back.
“Where the hell is your head at tonight, man? You okay?”
I hate being asked if I’m okay. I just turn away from him, glowering.
The coach gestures at me and I stand up and make my way over to him.
“Yes sir?”
