Page 38 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“Oops,” he says with a shit-eating grin. “I didn’t see you there, princess.”
Princess. The word hits something primal in my chest. I know he’s baiting me. I know this is exactly what he wants. But my fists are already clenching.
“You got something to say to me?” I growl, getting in his face.
“Just that you’re softer than I expected. Heard you were supposed to be some kind of badass.”
The linesmen are already moving in, but Kane keeps talking.
“Guess having a pretty little PR girl has made you all domesticated. She keeping you on a short leash, Chainsaw?”
That’s it. That’s the line. No one talks about Juliet to me and gets away with it. I can’t stand for it.
I drop my gloves before the ref can separate us. Kane’s ready for it, grinning like he just won the lottery. We grab each other’s jerseys and start throwing punches. His first one catches me in the jaw, snapping my head back. Mine finds his ribs, and he grunts. I feel the satisfaction of my fist connecting with flesh.
The crowd’s going insane. Phones are out, recording every second. I can hear the announcer shouting over the noise. But it’s static to me. All I care about is Kane’s smug face and making it hurt.
We go down in a tangle of limbs and fury. He gets me in a headlock, but I land two more shots to his kidney before the linesmen finally pull us apart.
The refs don’t even have to tell us we’re in trouble. I scramble to my feet, wiping blood from my nose, and start skating toward the penalty box.
We each get five minutes for fighting. Kane’s laughing as they escort him to the box, blood spouting from his nose and darkening his teeth. I’m sure I look much the same.
“Worth it,” he calls out to me. “Your girlfriend’s gonna love seeing that on the highlights.”
“I’ll fuck you up!” I growl. I lunge, going after him again, but Jett’s there, pushing me toward our bench.
“Cool it,” he hisses in my ear. “You gave him exactly what he wanted. Now, everybody who wants you to be mad knows all they have to do is shit-talk your fiancée.”
I know Jett’s right. I know I fucked up. But the rage is still burning in my chest, making it hard to think straight.
Coach Ryan doesn’t even look at me when I sit down. That’s worse than yelling. His eyes say he’s disappointed. Disappointment cuts deeper than anger.
The game gets away from us after that. Kane’s line takes liberties with our guys, knowing I’m stuck in the box. Thorne takes a late hit that leaves him slow getting up. One of their forwards runs Jett, leaving Silas to step in before it gets ugly.
By the time I’m back on the ice, we’re down two goals. My fault. My stupid, predictable temper cost us momentum when we needed it most.
I try to make up for it. Hit everything that moves, I win every face-off. I screen their goalie so hard he slashes at my ankles. But the scoreboard doesn’t lie.
Final score: 4-2. Loss.
In the locker room afterward, nobody says much. Guys strip out of their gear in silence, the weight of another missed opportunity hanging over everything.
Thorne’s icing his shoulder where he took that cheap shot. His jaw’s set in a way that means he’s pissed but too professional to show it. Grayson’s staring at his phone, probably reading the stats that tell him exactly how many scoring chances we gave up while I was acting like a caveman.
Silas finds me by my stall, pulling off his shoulder pads with methodical precision.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
“Peachy.”
“Hunter.”
I look up. My brother’s gray eyes are serious, concerned. It makes my chest tight in a way I don’t like.
“I’m fine, Si. Just pissed we lost.”
He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t buy it. Silas sees too much, always has. It’s eerie when I think about the fact that my brother probably knows me better than I know myself.
