Kincaid
I t’s the middle of the second period, and we’re winning, 3-1. I’ve got a goal and an assist, and I have to admit that it still feels a little surreal to look down and see the Toronto Thunder logo across my chest. I grew up worshipping the Thunder. I had Toronto Thunder pajamas. I had a Toronto Thunder themed birthday party when I turned eight. I still have the Toronto Thunder Christmas ornament I got when I was ten.
And now I’m a part of it. I’ve had an amazing career, but playing here, for my hometown team, is something else. Something incredible that I’m lucky to be a part of.
“Campbell, good hustle out there,” says Shane from behind me, clapping me on the shoulder. He gives me a few more pointers and another line of encouragement and then paces down the bench to talk to the assistant coach.
He’s a good coach. I know we’re only one game in, but I can see it already. He’s smart, organized, strategic. He’s analytical and understands the game better than most. If anyone can take a team to the championship, it’s Shane Ferguson.
And all I want is to do filthy things to his daughter. If he knew the thoughts I had about Lilah—thoughts I’d jerked off to in the shower this morning before following her as she had brunch with her friends, browsed a bookstore, and then went home to study—he’d end me. And rightfully so.
If I act on my feelings, I could jeopardize everything I’ve worked for. My career, my spot on this team.
If I don’t act on my feelings, I might lose my fucking mind. Because I’m consumed with Lilah, and every single day it gets worse.
Maybe I’ll just stalk her forever. I’ll have to murder any other man who touches her, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Because simply walking away from her…no. I can’t. I physically can’t.
Coach taps me on the shoulder, and I hop over the boards and onto the ice for the face off. I glance over my shoulder at Lilah, who’s smiling at me, pink cheeked and bright eyed. I smile back at my girl. My sweet, smart, beautiful girl.
Christ.
“You see the rocket sitting a few rows up?” says Greg Samsonov, the center for the Detroit Rock, smirking at me. “I heard that’s your coach’s sweet little daughter. Who knew Ferguson would be capable of creating such a fine piece of ass?”
My vision goes red around the edges as fury rages inside me. “The fuck did you just say?” I ask, crouching down for the face off.
“I’d love to get my hands on that tight little body. Those tits, fuck man,” he continues. He glances up at where Lilah’s sitting, a disgusting leer on his face. “Bet she screams so pretty when she’s getting railed good and hard.”
Rage burns through me, and I’m barely aware of the referee dropping the puck. I win the face off cleanly, sweeping the puck back to Tanner. Before he can do anything with it, I drive my shoulder into Samsonov’s chest, slamming him back against the boards. My gloves and stick hit the ice and I grab two fistfuls of his jersey.
I’ve never fought on the ice. Not in my entire career. But I can’t let what he said about my Lilah stand.
“You don’t fucking talk about the coach’s daughter,” I snarl. “Piece of shit.” I slam him into the boards for emphasis.
His eyes are wide with shock, just for a second, before anger chases the shock away. He shoves me back and takes a swing at me, the blow glancing off of my helmet.
The crowd is screaming as I cock my fist and then land a hard right that splits his lip open. The fans are chanting my name as we trade blows, blood dripping onto the ice from the cut on Samsonov’s lip. He lunges and tackles me to the ice, but I flip us easily, raining down blows on him from above until the linesmen drag me off of him.
I’m still seeing red, chest heaving and knuckles aching, as I’m escorted to the penalty box. Samsonov gets hauled off with a towel pressed to his mangled face.
I hope I broke his fucking nose.
The crowd is going insane, a mix of cheers and boos cascading down from the stands. I don’t care. All that matters is that I delivered a message: Lilah is off fucking limits.
The door to the penalty box slams shut, and my five-minute major for fighting is announced to a roar from the crowd. I take my helmet off and shove a hand through my hair. My knuckles are scraped and bruised, and I can feel a cut throbbing above my right eye. I take a breath, calming down before I turn to glance at Lilah. Her hands are over her mouth, her eyes wide.
Fuck. Guilt slices through me over her watching me lose it, but I know I’d do it again.
No one talks about my girl like that and gets away with it.
I take a deep breath as play resumes, trying to calm the adrenaline still pumping through my system. My hand throbs where I split a knuckle open. I flex my fingers and wince at the pain.
Worth it.
Once I’ve got a handle on myself, I glance up to where Lilah’s sitting with her friend. Her fingertips are pressed to her lips, eyes wide. She looks worried.
“Okay?” she mouths at me, and her concern all but obliterates the pain in my hand and face. The fact that she’s worried about me is everything right now. My sweet girl.
I nod.
She sends me a half-smile, and I turn my attention back to the game. Once my time is served, the door to the penalty box swings open, and I head back to the bench. Thankfully, my penalty didn’t do any damage and we’re still up 3-1. I sit down on the bench and take a long drink of water.
“Campbell,” Coach growls, and I turn. His face is like stone. Stern. Disappointed. “You don’t fight. Not ever. That’s not what you’re here for.” His eyes—the same shade of green as Lilah’s—bore into mine as he stares at me. “I don’t know what that was about, and frankly, I don’t care. What I do know is that it’s sure as fuck not going to happen again. Are we clear?”
I nod.
“Good. No more of that shit. Get your head back in the game. If you think you’re above being benched for bad behavior, think again.”
“Yes, Coach,” I say.
He claps me on the shoulder and even though I know I shouldn’t, I chance another glance up at Lilah.
She smiles at me, and I have no regrets about defending what’s mine.