Page 105 of Sticks & Serpents

"You knew better than that," he said. "That girl is only good for one thing. Filling that tight pussy up with come."

Rage flared inside me like a wildfire. I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. My grip tightened around my stick, the wood digging into my palms as I spun around, letting instinct take over.

In one swift motion, I swung.

The crack of the wood against his ribs echoed through the rink, a satisfying sound that drowned out the roar of the crowd and the whir of skates on ice. He crumpled to the ground, gasping for air as I stood over him, adrenaline surging through my veins like liquid fire.

“Don’t you ever talk about her like that again,” I snarled, my voice low and menacing.

He struggled to catch his breath, eyes wide with shock and pain. The satisfaction coursed through me, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

My heart raced as I felt the weight of all their gazes on me—teammates, rivals, spectators—all waiting for what would happen next. My breath came heavy and fast; the thrill of chaos beckoned to me like a siren's song.

I glanced toward Holly in the stands, her expression a mix of surprise and something else—fear? Disappointment? Maybe even admiration? It twisted in my gut as if she were tearing at old wounds that hadn’t fully healed.

Before anyone could intervene, I turned back to my opponent sprawled on the ice, seething with anger.How dare he speak about her like that?She was more than just a pretty face; she was everything to me—the light in my dark world—and no one had the right to belittle her or what we had.

A whistle blew somewhere far away, but it barely registered as I loomed over him, fists clenched tight at my sides.

“Get up,” I growled. “You wanted this fight; now face me.”

He struggled to rise but couldn’t muster any words—just stared up at me with fear etched across his face. Good. Let him be scared; let everyone see what happens when they cross me or threaten what’s mine.

I dropped my gloves, the sound of them hitting the ice echoing in my ears. My heart thundered as I grabbed the guy by his jersey, yanking him close enough to see the fear flicker in his eyes. I didn’t give a damn about the consequences.

I started swinging. My fists landed heavy and brutal, each punch connecting with a satisfying thud. Blood splattered across the ice—red against white—and I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins like gasoline igniting a fire.

I didn’t stop.

I didn’t care.

The world narrowed down to just me and him. Every hit was a release—a way to unleash all the pent-up rage and frustration that had been building for years. I felt invincible, every swing powered by memories of my mother’s cruel words and my father’s cold indifference.

Then the refs rushed in, trying to separate us, but it was too late. My focus was singular, driven by an instinct to protect what was mine and punish anyone who dared to threaten that.

It took two players to pull me off him, their hands grabbing my arms and dragging me back as I fought against their hold, snarling like a wild animal caged too long.

I spat blood onto the ice, chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. My eyes remained locked on the opposing player groaning on the ground, rolling onto his side with a look of shock etched across his features.

Good.

He deserved it.

The crowd roared around us—some cheering for me, others stunned into silence—but I barely registered them. The rage still bubbled beneath my skin, threatening to spill over again at any moment.

I almost went for him again. The instinct surged inside me like a tidal wave; he had dared to insult Holly, and that would never go unanswered.

But before I could move forward, someone held me back tighter this time—two sets of hands gripping my arms firmly until I couldn’t break free.

The crowd erupted into chaos, a cacophony of cheers and boos swirling around me as I stood there, fists still clenched, adrenaline surging through my veins.

I barely registered the refs yelling, their voices drowned out by the roar of the spectators. My coach was somewhere in the background, his face twisted in anger as he shouted at me to calm down. But it was too late for that. The fight had taken over; I felt alive and dangerous.

Two guys dragged me off the ice, their grip tight and unyielding. I struggled against them, muscles coiled and ready for another round. My heart raced with each step away from my opponent sprawled on the ice, blood staining the pristine white surface.

One thing was certain: my game was over.

As they pulled me toward the locker room, I caught glimpses of Holly in the stands, her expression a mixture of shock and something else—fear? Disappointment? Maybe even admiration? The sight twisted something inside me; I had just fought like a man possessed to protect her honor, yet here she was watching me being led away like a criminal.

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