Page 40 of Shattered Souls
With a desire-ridden moan, I hook my legs around his waist. And his cock, invigorated with new life, easily finds its home.
Yeah, I’d readily hide from reality with this man any day.
11
RILEY
“What is he doing?” I gasp from behind my hands, eyes wide with concern as I watch Logan tackle an opposing team member before taking off down the ice like it’s melting beneath his skates. After getting reamed out by his coach for missing last week’s game and now this… he’ll be lucky not to get kicked from the team.
There are only fifteen minutes left of the game, and thank god, because Logan is out for blood tonight, and he doesn’t seem to give a shit if it’s his or someone else’s. In fact, based on the number of fights he’s started, I think he’shopingit’ll be his blood spilled all over the ice before the final buzzer. The only reason he hasn’t been benched is because the ref has missed most of his fouls. However, with the game nearly over, Logan is growing reckless.
What I can’t understand iswhyhe’s behaving this way.
He had seemed fine when Royce and I finally dragged ourselves off the floor of the dance studio last night and crawled into Logan’s bed. Logan left early this morning for a meeting with his coach, and since it was game day, I hadn’t seen him all day.
Except the Logan on the ice right now is not the Logan who held me in his arms all night and whisperedI love youbefore he slipped from the room this morning. He’s a beast in a helmet and skates, barely paying attention to the puck, more focused on laying out anyone who dares go near him.
The question is, what happened?
Royce groans from beside me. “He’s on the warpath.”
He is. His hockey stick is a battle ax that he wields with deadly precision as he cuts his way across the rink, uncaring of who is in his way. Logan has a reputation for being ruthless on the ice, but this is on a whole other level. He’s been sent to the sin bin multiple times, and I’m honestly shocked he hasn’t been kicked from the game.
There’s still time.
Even as I think it, Logan crashes into another player, sending him sprawling to the ice, and the whistle blows. The other guy gets up swinging. Logan fists the front of the guy’s jersey, and then words are exchanged between them before Logan shoves at his chest, sending him backward so he can throw off his helmet and gloves.
“Oh shit,” Grayson murmurs, leaning forward in his seat, elbows on his knees as tension radiates from him.
There’s a moment where the entire stadium seems to stand still. The calm before the storm. Logan and the guy face off before Logan’s lips quirk in a savage grin that promises violence and stalls the air in my lungs.
“For fuck’s sake,” Royce groans. However, I can’t take my eyes away from the impending doom on the ice.
In the next second, the two of them are in the middle of a full-blown brawl. Fists fly as the ref’s whistle blows, nothing but white noise amongst the hoots and cajoling of the riled crowd.
“Oh my god,” I gasp from behind my hands.
“He’s going to get himself suspended,” Grayson sighs, shaking his head. Although, the tight press of his lips belies his concern for his friend.
The game is forgotten as players from both teams dive into the action—whether to pull the two fighters apart or to back them up, I’m not sure. It becomes chaos, and even standing on my seat, I can’t spot Logan amongst the other black and gold jerseys.
“Where is he?” I ask in a panic.
Royce and Grayson are on their feet too. “I can’t see him,” Royce yells to be heard over the crowd. “Damn it, Logan,” he growls, “What are you doing?”
Grayson is already moving down the aisle. Royce ushers me after him, and with a final look at the ice, I jump down from my seat. The crowd around us is just as wild as the fight on the ice, people yelling and shoving, caught up in the drama. We fight our way through the mass of bodies, each step a struggle against the tide of spectators craning their necks for a better view.
Grayson reaches back to grab my hand, tugging me until I fall into his back, while Royce shoves a man away when he moves to smack the plexiglass and nearly hits me instead. His beer spills over the rim of his cup, but we’re moving before he can say anything.
Worry for Logan clogs my throat as the chaotic energy of the crowd makes everything feel even more out of control.
“This is insane,” Grayson mutters when we finally reach the aisle. His eyes scan the ice, and I turn to follow, still unable to make out Logan amongst the other players. Refs are dragging apart players and sending them to their respective benches.
“Do you see him?” I ask frantically.
A tense moment before Royce points. “There!” My gaze bounces from player to player until I finally spot the familiar dirty blond hair of my husky. My breath catches as I watch himbeing escorted from the ice, his face a mask of fury and blood dripping from a cut above his eye.
“They’re sending him off,” Royce states, his voice tight with concern.
