Page 65 of Checking Mr. Wrong
I bark out a laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll keep it professional.”
But as the buzzer sounds and we line up to hit the ice, I know one thing for sure: if Jared so much as breathes in my direction,professionalmight go right out the window.
The game against the Titans is intense, but our crowd is tough and they have shown up tonight. They’re electric, filling the seats in a sea of team colors, waving banners and signs, and cheering. You would think we handed out free jerseys to every ticket holder. They are everywhere I look.
Even though I want to peek at the stands as much as I can because I know that a certain someone texted to tell me they were coming tonight, I don’t. Well, at least not right away.
The Titans are pushing the pace like they’ve got something to prove. The puck zips across the ice like a bullet, and I’m right in the thick of it, blocking passes, cutting off lanes, battling for every inch. We’re barely even on the ice when Weston scores, setting the tone for what is surely going to be an epic night. The crowd behind our goal is a wall of sound—roars, chants, stomping feet—fueling me, pushing me harder than any pregame pep talk ever could.
I’m skating a tight circle near the blue line when I finally let my eyes drift up, scanning the stands. There she is. Mabel. Bright as a spotlight, sitting right in the front row, beside her mother, her hair pulled back in that messy ponytail that I swear makes her look ten times more beautiful. Her eyes catch mine, and she flashes a huge smile my way.
My heart stutters for a split second, just long enough for Jared to catch the shift in my focus. He’s nearby, and when our eyes meet, his smirk twists into something sharper, like he’s issuing a silent challenge.
I shake it off and turn back to the game. The puck skitters loose, and I’m on it like a hawk, jabbing my stick to wrestle control away from a Titan winger. The crowd erupts as I break free and launch a pass down the ice, setting up one of our forwards for a quick shot on goal. The puck hits the net, and we score.
Between the cheers, I sneak another glance at the stands. Mabel’s on her feet now, waving an Ice Breakers banner with Murray, shouting with excitement. It lights up something inside me and gives me a little extra push on the ice.
Jared’s gaze flickers toward her, too, yet again. His jaw tightens, and when we lock eyes, I swear, there’s a storm brewing.
He skates over during a pause in play and glances up to where I’d been pointing earlier, to the section where Mabel’s sitting.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, his voice dripping with condescension. “Isn’t that the girl from that viral video? You know, the one where she completely torched that anchor on live TV? She’s hot. Best view is when she’s walking away. How would your goalie say it…trés bien?”
Even though steam should be pouring out of my ears at that comment, I don’t bite. Not yet. “Careful.”
“Oh, come on, Asher.” He grins, skating a lazy circle around me. “You really think a woman that smokin’ hot and smart is going to be into you?”
I snort. “Jealous?”
His grin falters for a second, but he recovers. “You wish. I’ve seen her type before. All career, no time for anything else. You’ll always wonder if she’s interested in you. Or are you another story for her? I mean, you’re a good story, Asher. A little tragic, a little heroic. What more could she want?”
“Watch it.” My hands clench around my stick as Cade grabs my arm.
“Dude, get outta here,” Lucian says, waving Jared away. “No one needs your crap on our end.”
He laughs, loud and fake. “Everyone’s coming to Tremblay’s defense. Wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your woman. Although…” He pauses, leaning in slightly. “Maybe she’s used to guys like you…you know, the kind who’s happy with someone else’s leftovers.”
That’s it. I’m done.
Before I can think twice, I drop my gloves and swing. Jared’s ready for it, laughing as he grapples with me. His fist grazes my helmet, and the next second, we’re locked in, shoving and throwing punches. The crowd roars as the officials skate over, whistles blaring, but it’s like background noise.
“I’ve wanted to do this for years,” I shout, ducking another swing.
“And I’ve been waiting for it,” he fires back, grinning through his mouthguard.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear Clément yelling, “Break it up!” He tries to wedge himself between us, but Jared’s shove sends him sprawling. That’s the tipping point. Cade’s on Jared in a heartbeat, and Lucian’s coming to back me up. It’s chaos—sticks flying, players crashing, gloves littering the ice. The crowd’s going wild, but all I can focus on is the rage pounding in my chest.
Eventually, the officials manage to pull us apart. Jared’s still smirking as they drag him toward the bench, but his split lip tells me I got a decent shot in. My own face stings and my jersey’s twisted, but I don’t care.
Then I see Clément. He’s still on the ice, wincing as he tries to get up. I start to skate to his side, but Cade grabs my arm, pulling me back without a word. Somehow, he always seems to know when I’m drifting.
The adrenaline fades, replaced by the most horrific sinking feeling. The medics rush over, and the ref’s calling for the coach. Around us, the chaos dies down, replaced by a tense silence. Being the goalie, Clément’s the backbone of our team—losing him would be a huge blow. On the ice, and off.
And it’s my fault.
As they help him up, I glance up at the stands. Mabel’s still there, her expression unreadable. Whatever she’s thinking, I know one thing for sure: this fight might have just cost me more than penalty minutes.
The locker room is somber. The usual post-game chatter is absent, replaced by a quiet thickness. I’ve already apologized a dozen times, but it doesn’t feel like enough. The guilt’s gnawing at me, and I slam my locker shut with enough force to make the metal rattle.
