Page 60 of Ice Wolf
“Go. Go. Go,” I whispered, excitement building inside.
The puck flew into the air and there wasn’t a single person who wasn’t holding their breath.
When another slight hush swept through the crowd, I was certain he would miss.
The big Italian was ready for it. Reaching. Snarling. The mask on his face couldn’t hide the man’s hatred. I was holding mybreath. I was leaning forward. The Italian Wall threw himself at the puck.
Suddenly, there wasn’t a single person in the stadium who wasn’t screaming Saint’s name.
“Savage!”
“Savage!”
“Savage!”
A rush of liquid splashed across my face followed by some asshole dumping an entire beer over my head as the jubilation increased. The sound level was off the charts, everyone chanting as if Saint was their Messiah.
Gasping, I turned around to face the culprit. The huge man was red faced, wearing a mockup of Saint’s jersey, pounding his fist into the air with not a care in the world.
Meanwhile, I was drenched, standing with a glare on my face and the venom of the most poisonous snake in my eyes.
He. Didn’t. Care.
Nor did anyone else.
Sloshing was a crowd thing, the collective jumping somehow in rhythm. As music began to play, videos of the melee washed across the Videotron screens, I finally turned back toward the ice, shaking my head.
“See that? Your boyfriend is a hero!” Vicky yelled above the roar. “Excuse me. Your fuck buddy.”
I elbowed her hard, but Vicky was a tough girl, doing nothing more than laughing.
At my expense.
The buzzer had gone off and I hadn’t paid any attention. With the game over, hockey players and coaches swarmed the ice. All the while, Saint had his arms in the air, gliding around the outskirts of the arena with a huge smile on his face. He’d tossed off his helmet, generously basking in the glow and show. Okay, he deserved it. I couldn’t lie that from what I knew, which was very little, he’d been the true star of the show.
Or game.
Whatever it was called.
Suddenly, a fight broke out, the Italian Wall and half the Devil’s players throwing themselves at the Wild Dogs.
The Wild Dogs weren’t backing down.
“Oh, shit,” Vicky moaned.
Dozens of people rushed onto the ice trying to break up the fight.
“This will make for juicy news, girlfriend,” Vicky roared.
Not the kind I was hoping for.
Helmets were off, punches thrown. When the Italian Wall threw a hard jab at Saint, catching him in the face, my nerves were shot to shit.
Please don’t shift. Please don’t shift.
I couldn’t believe that’s what I was thinking.
When Saint threw a couple of brutal jabs of his own, a strange sense of protectiveness rolled through me. I was also excitedhe’d nailed the bastard. There wasn’t a single person in the arena who didn’t have their phones pointed toward the melee.
