Page 106 of Pucking Matt
Matt: I would love that
Amber: Okay
Matt: See you after the game, baby
Amber: (Laughing emoji)
Amber: I can come to your game, but I didn’t say anything about seeing you after
Amber: Pfft. As if
Matt: I know where you live
Amber: Stalker
I smile at her text as I push off the chair I’ve been glued to and get ready for bed.
The game is in full swing. 2-0. We’re fucking winning, thanks to me and Grey working like real brothers on the ice. He should be counting his lucky stars I’m not stealing his shine because I may have hesitated ten minutes ago during the first period. But that hesitation is what bought us the time to score. Our defense is pushing hard tonight, so I feel the win is already in our pocket. In third period, I’m fully invested in keeping our winning score. But one wrong fucking move, too close to the opposing forward, and pain radiates through my cheek. The warm liquid pools on my face. I tilt my head back, trying to race for the puck. The guy tries to hit my face with the end of his hockey stick again. Motherfucker! I skate ahead of him and drop my stick. I pull off my helmet, feeling the blood drip down, as I make eye contact with him. He chucks his stick and takes off his helmet, nodding his head at me. The crowd roars. I’m already in his face with a good hold of his jersey, releasing my pent-up energy with every punch to his jaw. Adrenaline is rushing through me. When he hits me back, the cut he gave me two seconds ago hurts like a fucking bitch. The ref is already pulling us apart. Grey has his arms around me with all his strength.
“Come on! You’re fucking bleeding everywhere,” Grey says in my ear. “Come on!”
“Pearson!” Coach calls as I skate to exit the rink. “What the hell are you doing!”
I walk off, fucking off my helmet but taking my hockey stick to the locker room to get seen by the trainer. Meanwhile, the social media manager – I don’t know her name – is filming me walk off. I roll my eyes.
“Took a pretty hard hit out there. You might need stitches,” Browning says, handing me a towel.
I take it from him and press it against my cheek. “Might need stitches my ass. I need to get back out there, Browning.”
I follow him into the locker room.
“Let me get a better look.”
“I can’t get stitches, Brian. I have a wedding tomorrow.”
“A wedding?” he says, pointing at the bench so I take a seat.
“Yeah, this pretty face can’t have any stitches.”
He tilts my chin up to look at the gash. “Does it hurt?”
“Like a bitch.”
He nods. “It might bruise.”
“Like a black eye?” I ask, searching for the nearest mirror. “Can I get back out there?”
“If he goes after you again–”
“I’ll kick his fucking ass is what.”
“Pearson, you’re done tonight. You can watch from the sidelines.”
“Fuck it,” I say, irritated. That was all the permission I needed to remove my gear.
Meanwhile, Brian leaves to get supplies. The towel he handed me is soaked with my blood.
“Can you glue it?” I ask. “Much better idea.”
