Page 49 of Rush the Edge

“I’m not patient enough for your bullshit,” I mutter.

With a half turn, I see what has the crowd going wild. My blood runs hot, and if I wasn’t so steady on skates, I’d have slipped and fallen.

I’m going to kill her.

Deep in my bones, I knew it was too good to be true. Daisy Sullivan is no coward. Why would I assume that she’d retreat after I ripped her costume to shreds? I should have expected that she’d have something else up her sleeve. She always did keep me on my toes, butshit.

I didn’t think she’d do…this.

My vision blurs with anger, but the closer I get to her, the clearer my sight becomes.

Why does she have to be so alluring?

Daisy is the pretty lone flower in a field of men craving her attention. Devil horns and all, she’s gaining the attention of every single person in the arena. The men want her, and the women want to be her.

“Let’s give our new mascot ahugeBlue Devil welcome!”

I glare at Cindy with her microphone and headset on.Was this her doing?

Daisy, who is dressed in a sort of figure-skater dress, does a simple two-foot turn on her skates with a wave of her devil trident. The apples of her cheeks shimmer with some type of sparkle, and she looks more like an ice princess versus a devil.

My heart screams inside my chest as I attempt to glare at her, but just looking at her softens something inside of me.

I hate it.

My teammates tap their sticks against the ice as Cindy hands Daisy the microphone. The urge to skate across the rink, fling her over my shoulder, and send her packing is almost blinding.

This is on national television.

When it comes to Daisy, I have to react precisely, when there aren’t millions of eyes on us.

With one hand on the microphone and the other holding her trident, her sweet voice fills my head as well as everyone in the arena.

“Let's give it up for our Blue Devils!”

The crowd screams and claps, most of them rising to their feet.

I stay in my exact spot, likely melting the ice beneath my skates from the heat I’m feeling.

Daisy exchanges the microphone for blue foam tridents that Cindy gives her and takes off toward the glass. My breath lodges inside my throat when little kids come running down the steps with their arms stretched out wide for one of them.

Great, the whole fucking fan base loves her.

Even my teammates.

Ninety percent of them are standing around with their sticks loose in their grip and a haze covering their face—that haze being Daisy fucking Sullivan.

“Get to warming up,” I shout on my drive-by toward our new mascot.

It snaps them out of their fantasies, and they go back to stretching. My jaw grinds back and forth while I watch Daisy attempt to throw a trident over the glass. One drops to the ice, and she bends over to retrieve it.

I stare at the perfect view of her ass.

Sure, there’s a flimsy see-through piece of fabric there, but it does nothing to hide her body.

When she attempts to throw the trident again, she stretches herself as much as she can, revealing the mesh, skin-colored material along her torso.

My mouth runs dry when I get a side-glimpse of her breast. The mental walls I carefully built earlier to block everything out, except for hockey, crumble, blending right in with the ice shavings my skates are currently making while I rush the edge of the arena.

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