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Cecelia stares at me. Oops. The crowd was momentarily quiet and I’d used my out-loud voice.
“Who are you talking about?” she asks me, looking puzzled.
“The guy Mason was hitting. Have you seen how he’s playing? He shouldn’t even be in the game.” I shake my head in disgust.
“He sure as hell shouldn’t,” Cece agrees, bobbing her head vigorously. “He deserves to get his ass handed to him.”
I look back on the ice, where Mason is looking at me again, and I return his glare. While he’s distracted, a player from the other team slams into him and knocks him on his butt.
Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet, I think grimly.
32
MASON
This evening startedout great and went straight to hell.
I was rushed getting to the rink and all my pregame rituals were half-assed because of it.
If that wasn’t bad enough, Rowan’s wearing Beck’s jersey ... again. She knows how I feel about that. I’ve made it damn clear.
Does she actually want me to lose my shit?
“What bit your ass tonight?” Beckett asks.
We’re sitting on the sidelines, watching the ballet of violence on the ice and waiting to be rotated back in.
“Nothing,” I snarl.
“You pissed that your girl is wearing my jersey instead of yours?” he smirks, knowing damn well that I fucking hate it.
I glare at him. “She’s not my girl. But it is pretty fucked up thatmypublicist would wear your jersey in public when she’s supposed to be supporting me.”
“Jesus. You sound like a jealous girlfriend,” Beckett scoffs. “You going to put a ring on it?”
I don’t have an answer to that, so I just mutter “fuck off,” and then we’re both called back into the game. It’s a good thing because I about kicked his ass. I wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much as I will taking my aggression out on some Flying Pigs.
Who the hell names a team that anyway?
I rush out onto the ice, throwing elbows and bowling through my opponents. But my mind is elsewhere. One question keeps circulating on repeat.
Did Rowan do this to me on purpose?
She sounded weird when I talked to her earlier, so odds are, yes, she knew exactly what she was doing. I asked her if anything was wrong. Gave her the chance to tell me what was on her mind.
Not that she needed to. I don’t need to be a member of Mensa to work out that she saw the tabloids, and she’s pissed.
Damn it.
Why couldn’t she just say it? Get it out there and the conversation over with. Before my game preferably.
Women never tell you why they’re mad. They throw out hints, or stomp around like a child, but when the opportunity is presented, they say nothing.
I’m a guy. Guys can be pretty emotionally stupid. It’s like, help a man out, won’t you? Tell us how we screwed up and ...
Wham. I’m slammed into by two hundred plus pounds of pure fury as someone checks me from behind. I spin around to kick some Flying Pigs tail and see that it’s Dylan.
Just what I fucking need.
