Page 69 of Arrogant Puck

In the locker room, I go through my pre-game routine that Archer and I used to have. Tape, pads, jersey. The familiar ritual usually calms me, centers me, but tonight it just gives my anger time to simmer.

Sage is working on mobility with some of the guys across the room, and watching her hands on them makes my jaw clench.Richardson is flexing his shoulder while she assesses the range of motion, and Davidson is letting her stretch his hamstring. Every touch, every professional interaction makes the possessive beast in my chest roar.

But I save that energy. I’m going to need it.

When her eyes find me across the room, I deliberately look away. Let her wonder what she did wrong. Let her sit with the consequences of trying to put me in the friend box.

Coach gives his usual pre-game speech about playing smart, playing hard, playing as a team. I hear the words, but all I can think about is the woman who thinks I’m safe enough to be her friend.

She’s about to find out exactly how wrong she is.

When the puck drops, it’s game on.

The first Chicago player to come near me gets a shoulder check that sends him flying into the boards. The crowd erupts, and I can feel the familiar rush of violence singing in my veins.

This is who I really am. Not the careful, controlled man who brings her lunch and tucks her into bed. This is the animal she should be afraid of.

Thirty seconds later, I steal the puck from their center and fire a pass across ice to Henderson, who buries it in the net. The goal light flashes, and I skate past the bench without celebration, already hunting for my next target.

Chicago’s biggest defenseman tries to line me up for a hit, but I see him coming and lower my shoulder, driving through him instead of around him. He goes down hard, and the ref’s whistle screams.

“Boarding! Number 91, two minutes!”

I don’t argue. I skate to the penalty box with satisfaction burning in my chest. The fans are booing, throwing things at the glass, but their hatred just feeds the fire.

Two minutes later, I’m back on the ice and hungrier than ever.

The second period is when I really let loose. A Chicago forward gets too close to our goalie, so I cross-check him so hard he nearly goes through the glass. Another player tries to get cute with a hit on Mitchell, so I drop my gloves and feed him a right hook that drops him like a stone.

The refs give me five minutes for fighting, but it’s worth it to see the fear in Chicago’s eyes when they look at me.

By the third period, I’ve assisted on two more goals and taken four penalties. I’m playing like a man possessed, like someone with nothing to lose. Every hit is harder than it needs to be, every pass more aggressive than necessary.

This is what notorious looks like. This is the reputation that follows me wherever I go—the player who skates the line between hockey and warfare, who makes other teams think twice before stepping on the ice.

And through it all, I can feel Sage watching from the bench area. I wonder if she’s finally starting to understand that the man who brought her lunch is the same one who just sent three Chicago players to the medical room.

I wonder if she still wants to be fucking friends with someone like me.

The final buzzer sounds with us up 5-2, and as I skate off the ice, I catch her eye through the glass. She’s staring at me with something that might be recognition, or fear, or both.

Good. Maybe now she’ll understand that a man like me doesn’t have any friends.

Chapter 27

While I work on mobility exercises with Richardson and Davidson in the training room, my eyes keep drifting to the locker area where I know Slater is. I wonder if his hip is okay after that brutal game, but I can’t ask him in public.

Helping him with his hip is completely off the record, and as long as I’m able to help him, I’ll continue to monitor his pain privately. It’s the least I can do, especially when I can see how much he needs it even if he’ll never admit it.

During the game, I watched him dominate the ice like hockey was personal warfare. The way he plowed through Chicago players with violence, the multiple trips to the penalty box, the pure aggression radiating from every hit—it was both terrifying and mesmerizing.

I’m not sure if living with him is the best idea. I mean… watching him play so aggressively like that on the ice? Red flag. The list of horrible things Riley mentioned from his past? Red flag. Never allowing anyone in? Probably a red flag.

At least this weekend is a good buffer. We’ll be on this trip for two more days, and I’ll have time to apply to apartments, maybe find somewhere I can afford.

The team wins 5-2, and they’re celebrating by planning a night out. The bus ride back to the hotel is full of energy—guys are fired up, reliving the best hits and goals, talking trash about Chicago’s defense.

I keep my focus straight ahead, honestly just wanting to get into my hotel bed and finally get some real sleep. Today has been a marathon of emotions, and I’m running on fumes.

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