Chapter 64
JAYDEN
“Cherio,” Dylan screams for Weissman while I chase the puck behind our goal.
The Wolves’ center comes rushing at me, stick out, ready to steal the puck from under my nose. Last minute, just as the blade of his stick sweeps across the ice, I turn, taking the brunt of his momentum on my back at the same time as I slap the puck to Weissman.
With a quick breath, I shoot after him, making sure I have him covered to finish the play to Bruce right at the Wolves’s blue line. Their defense has been tight all night.
The shots we’ve had on goal say we should be breezing to the final buzzer. Instead, we’re taking the fight all the way to the last second.
As soon as Bruce has the puck, I pull back to cover the line while Weissman and Eli change over. There’s two minutes left on the clock, and we can’t be on the defensive anymore. It’s not working, and overtime isn’t an option any of us are keen on.
Looks like The Wolves have the same idea because they swap over their grinder for their enforcer—Presley fucking Tomes.
Shit.
The instant I see his stare zero in on Eli, my blood curdles.
So far, their shifts haven’t crossed with Coach playing Weissman harder tonight, obviously trying to avoid conflict when the atmosphere in the arena is already sombre.
This is the Wolves’ first game since Cavanaugh passed, and it feels like there’s a lump in everyone’s throats.
“Let’s go, boys!” Dylan slaps my ass with the blade of his stick.
The clock is running down faster than ever when the puck comes barreling towards our crease. Cutting through the ice at a speed that has Eli racing to intercept. Meanwhile, I push forward, creating enough traffic with Rio close by that we turn over the attack fast.
Eli dekes past Presley, feigning left when he pushes right. The bastard was ready to hammer him to the boards. When it fails, the glower on his face tightens.
Son of a bitch.
The roar of my pulse pounds in my ears, echoing in my chest in a chaotic rhythm. With Bruce marked from all sides, Eli shoots Andy the puck before zipping back in line with me.
We’re creating as much traffic as we can to overwhelm the Wolves’ defensive line. It’s a fast play, and shots are taken in rapid succession.
Rio misses the top shelf, hitting the crossbar so hard the puck ricochets straight to Bruce.
He shoots it right at the five-hole, only for the goalie to drop down onto his knees. A wide butterfly that shuts off the entire bottom portion of the goal as he flicks the puck away.
Directly at me.
I’ve never moved so fucking fast. Cushioning the puck with the butt end of my stick, I watch it drop to his feet as I twist and shoot. A clean fucking line that lifts, swoops…and hits the bottom of the crossbar.
Bardown!
“Fuck me,” I let out the breath I’ve been holding for far too long.
There’s a little over fifty seconds frozen on the clock as Rio jumps on me from behind. Asshole almost takes me down, save for Eli holding me up while Andy and Bruce slap my helmet and shower it with kisses.
Yet, there’s only one man I’m searching out. Only one pair of eyes I’m eager to set mine on. The only hands that I want on me are Eli’s when he slaps my chest and gives me that beaming grin that sets my whole world on fire.
Goddamn!
I’m completely overcome by the blissed-out relief of our hard-earned win when I grab the collar of his jersey with one hand and scream in his face, because if I don’t expel some of this frantic energy, my mouth might find his, and then we’ll really give the press something to talk about.
“Fucking legend,” he yells back, grasping my jaw in his gloved hand.
He’s so damn gorgeous, and it’s taking everything in me not to pull off his helmet and kiss the ever-loving crap out of him.
“Okay, lovebirds,” Andy yells above the grumble of the crowd. “Let’s run that fucking clock down, motherfuckers!”
“Let’s do this, Baby!” Eli adjusts my helmet, making sure it’s in place before he heads back towards our defending zone, where Dylan is ready and waiting to take on the last fifty seconds of the game.
The chill in the air soaks through my sweat-drenched gear. It’s nothing to do with the seventeen-thousand square feet of ice under my blades, and everything to do with the glacial glare marking me from center ice.
There’s a sinking feeling in my chest when the puck drops and Bruce shoots it to Rio. He barely makes it a few paces before Presley slams him to the boards.
Motherfucker.
I’ve been real fucking good all damn night. Reined myself in. Looked the other way. Because I’m here to do my job.
Nevertheless, every time I look at the prick, my stomach churns. Every path I cross with him, another thread of my control snaps.
Bruce recovers the puck quickly, but with Andy marked on all sides and Rio still dazed from Presley’s knock, it only leaves me and Eli open to receive it.
A part of me is assessing the danger of playing the puck into the attacking zone, but with seconds left in the game, keeping possession is the safest option to guarantee the win.
Finding a clear line, Eli receives the puck from Bruce, passes it straight to me before he rounds our back door, blocking Presley’s path toward me.
It happens in a blink. Eli hits the boards in an awkward heap. His neck is crooked and shoulders twisted with Presley’s weight holding him down.
I shoot forward, throwing my stick down with hard force.
Puck be fucked as I sideswipe Presley off Eli with a bone-rattling thump.
My raging shout spittles over the bastard’s jaw when I press him up to the glass with one hand and shuck my glove off with the other.
Asshole says fuck all as he stares me out. The same way he did to Eli during warm-up. Stood there, staring at him. Not saying a word because he knows his presence is enough to fuck with his head.
Glacial eyes narrow on mine, squinting with the uptick of his sick smirk when the referee pulls me from him. Eli pushes between us, the pleading look on his face begs me to stop.
“Pussies,” Presley spits our way as he shoves one of his D-men off him. “Fucking abominations.”
Eli’s on him fast. Gloves off. Fists pummeling the cunt’s jaw until he staggers into the boards. Andie and the linesman hold him back, giving Presley a chance to push off the side.
His fist is reared back and aiming straight for my man. I see it instantly.
My fists are on him before my gloves hit the ice. Two of the Wolves’ men grip my shoulders, yanking me back, only for Rio and Bruce to shove them off.
It’s an all-out brawl behind me, feeding the raucous drum of my pulse. It’s thundering in my ears. Pounding in my chest.
The fucking stench of his sweat roils my gut when Presley grips my jaw.
My whole body lunges forward. Arms, legs, feet, and hands.
Hard and fast. The momentum is out of my control as we roll along the boards, fists clobbering anywhere and everywhere.
The thrash of our bodies making it impossible to stay on our feet.
As we go down, my clenched hand surges upwards, clocking him square in the mouth.
Sharp teeth bite into my knuckles. The scorching pain shoots through me. Deeper with every pound of my fist on his face, on his neck…
Every drive, ratcheting my pulse. My hate. My need to make him pay.
He’s an animal.
“…wife beating sack of shit…”
He’s the abomination.
“…fucking abusive prick…”
The devil.
“…repulsive cunt… goddamn rapist…”
A monster.
And I don’t stop until he looks like one.