Page 137 of The Pucking Arrangement

This is what I do. I hit. I shut down plays. I break wills.

So why the fuck is my head a thousand miles away?

Because I know where Erin is right now.

Probably in my house. In my garden. With Luka.

Focus, asshole.

Across the ice, The Titans’ golden boy glides past our blue line during warm-ups, that trademark smirk plastered on his face. Blake White has been lighting us up all series. Married to a rock star, featured in magazines, living the dream. The kind of guy people love to love.

Not me.

Tonight, I’m hunting.

“You good?” Liam mutters as we take position for the first faceoff.

I grunt something that’s either Russian or straight-up violent intent.

The puck drops.

White’s line comes out flying. He’s fast, I’ll give him that, but I’m already reading his eyes, tracking the play before it even forms. He winds up for one of those cross-ice passes he’s famous for—not happening. I step up, intercepting him clean. He barely has time to register what’s happening before my shoulder slams into his chest, sending him sprawling on his ass at center ice.

The crowd erupts.

Perfect. Let them hate. Hate is clean. Simple. Better than the tangled mess in my chest every time I think about Erin leaving.

Next shift, White tries to dangle through the neutral zone. Nope. I hold the blue line, daring him to come at me. He does. Bad move. My hip check sends him flying, his stick cartwheeling across the ice.

He pops up fast, panting, eyes gleaming with something dangerous.

“Someone’s feeling frisky,” he goads. “Saw your nanny’s latest video. Girl’s got talent.”

I tighten my grip on my stick.

“But that Croatian dude?” White continues, voice all casual arrogance. “Bit handsy with the demonstrations, don’t you think?”

Red bleeds into my vision.

My pulse slows. My focus sharpens.

I wait. Track him as he slips behind our defense. He thinks he’s got a lane—he doesn’t. My skates carve deep into the ice as I pivot, cutting him off. He turns too late. I drive forward, channeling every ounce of rage into the hit.

The collision is seismic.

White’s body explodes against the boards, the impact rattling the glass, shaking the entire arena.

His gloves drop first. Then his fist catches my jaw.

Not bad.

For apretty boy.

I retaliate with a straight right to his mouth, sending his head snapping back. Blood blooms instantly. He swings again—wild, off balance. I dodge, then land another clean one to his cheekbone.

“You’re done, Sokolov!” The ref’s whistle screeches through the chaos. “Five for fighting!”

Perfect. Five minutes to sit and think about how I just lost my shit over a guy running his mouth. Real professional.

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