Page 62 of Pipe Dreams
The door to Nate’s box burst open and Rebecca marched in. “What’s the score?” she demanded.
“One to one,” Lauren and Georgia said in unison.
Nate turned around in his seat, his face unreadable.
“Don’t start,” Becca said immediately. “It’s not that late and I can’t sleep if the game’s on.”
He turned around again, his focus back on the ice.
Becca grabbed Georgia’s wineglass and sipped from it.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to...”
“Shh!” Becca silenced her. “It’s one sip. Don’t alert my jailer.”
Georgia fetched a soda for Becca and then fixed her with a stare. “How’s it going, anyway? I haven’t heard much from you since the party in Bal Harbour. Are you still staying at Nate’s?”
“Nope.” Becca took a long sip of the soda, and Lauren could swear her eyes looked a little shifty. “Back in my own apartment.”
“Okay...” Georgia waited for more information, but none was forthcoming.
She was spared from further grilling because Tampa got the puck away from Trevi and turned toward Brooklyn’s defensive zone.
“Baby, no!” Georgia yelped.
Everyone in the box tensed as Tampa rushed the net.
They fired on Mike, who deflected a shot off his stick. But the rebound was tight, and he had to dive for a second one.
Nate’s box held its collective breath while Brooklyn tried to clear it. Tampa took aim again and two players charged the net—Skews and his left wing. When the winger shot, Mike slapped the puck away.
And then Skews plowed right into the goalie.
“Oh, Jesus,” Nate said, losing his calm expression for once. “Don’t you dare start a...”
He didn’t even get the words out before Mike threw off his gloves and lunged for the other man.
•••
Mike hadn’t really lost his cool in a long damn time. But when the asshole he was now famous for benching so recklessly ran into him, he just snapped.
Later, he wouldn’t even remember dropping his gloves or skating out of the crease. There was just the guy’s stupid smirk, and the pounding desire inside Mike’s chest to knock it off his face.
There was no skill to his attack, it was all just adrenaline and instinct. He grabbed Skews’s sweater and swung. The punch connected, but not well. And once his opponent shook off his surprise, he was swinging, too.
Mike ducked and then switched hands, punching the other man in the face mask, which flew off. The next thirty seconds were a blur of fists and grunts. His face stung and his right hand was killing him. Maybe the fight lasted sixty seconds, but it felt like an eternity before Skews finally lost his footing and fell, bringing Mike down on top of him.
The refs jumped in to pull them apart, and Mike was left panting, his pulse wild.
He hadn’t been in a fight in three years. And wouldn’t this be fun to explain to his child?
There was blood dripping off his face. He knew he looked bad when Henry—the trainer—skidded out on his street shoes to take a look at the damage.
Fuck.
“I’m fine,” he insisted even before Henry reached him.
The guy pressed a cotton pad to his cheekbone and winced. “You can’t play when you’re bleeding everywhere.”
