17. Wren #2
I turn away from him, giving the ice my attention once more, even if I’m no longer paying attention to the game. I’m too worked up. Too furious to focus on the blurred, faceless forms racing by in front of me.
“But,” the rookie stutters, apparently not willing to give up just yet. “He’s gonna be watching. He’s going to see…”
“Then he can watch me not wear it,” I snark, not sparing him another glance. I glare murderously at the ice instead, growing acutely aware of the people around us listening to our altercation.
I hold my breath until the rookie, admitting defeat, stalks off. Only then do I blow it out, letting the tension drain from my shoulders. I shift forward in my chair, forcing myself to pay attention to the game playing before me.
Ronan accelerates through center ice, calling for a stretch pass—
But as he crosses the logo, his eyes lift and lock on mine.
He sees me.
Still in Dylan’s jersey.
Still not in his.
In a move of rebellion, fueled by anger that he thinks he can dictate what I wear, I lift my hand and flip him the middle finger.
Something sharp flickers in his eyes, his lips twitching, although I’m not sure if it’s with humor or irritation.
I don’t particularly care which, at this point. Let him be pissed off. I’m pissed off.
And yet the weight of his stare feels like a brand. Like I’ve broken some unspoken rule, and now I’m going to pay for it. I can feel the weight of his annoyance pressing into my skin. My chest. My throat.
My entire body heats beneath his attention, low and curling and relentless.
My breath catches, my fingers tightening around the hem of my borrowed jersey.
He’s on the other side of the ice, and still, it feels like he’s touching me.
It pulls at something buried deep in my core—something primal and electric and entirely beyond my control.
I hate that he has this effect on me.
I hate how my body reacts before my brain can catch up.
But most of all, I hate that some part of me doesn’t want to look away.
That some dark, twisted part of me likes it. Likes his sinister stare at me. The heat of his gaze. The brunt of his frustration.
I almost don’t want the moment to end because what’s burning in his eyes?
It feels like hunger.
The moment can’t have lasted more than a second before he snaps back into play, picking up right where he left off.
Just as a shiver with awareness skitters down my spine, knowing I’ve crossed some invisible line that I won’t be able to come back from, the guy sitting to my right leans in.
“Huh. Seems like you’ve got the attention of all of the Kings tonight.”
My lips flatten as I glance sideways. He’s older than most of the crowd. Maybe a grad student. Maybe just a sleazy townie who managed to score student section seats. Blond hair tucked under a backward cap. He’s ignored me the whole game…until now.
“Is Sterling your boyfriend or something?” he asks, lifting his chin toward the ice.
I grit my teeth. “Definitely not.”
“What about one of the others? I noticed Caulfield and Monroe staring at you earlier.”
My shoulders stiffen. Not that this guy is doing anything wrong, per se.
Everyone in this section saw the three assholes staring at me earlier.
His interest just…it makes the hairs on the back of my arms stand up.
The fact that he noticed. The fact that he’s asking.
It’s most likely my internalized trauma making a bigger deal out of it than necessary, but it still makes me uncomfortable.
I don’t want to give him an answer. So I don’t.
I purse my lips, remaining silent.
He doesn’t get the message.
“‘Cause I was wondering why a pretty girl like you was wearing a Steelhawks jersey in Kings territory. Thought maybe you were trying to start something.”
“I’m not,” I answer shortly, eyes fixed ahead. Take a hint, dude.
“You sure?” His voice lowers. “Because if you wanted a real game night experience, I could show you a hell of a time after this.”
I stiffen. Turn just enough to angle my body away from him, but he leans in anyway, close enough that I can smell his beer breath.
“No thanks,” I bite out, but he doesn’t back off.
“You don’t have to play hard to get—”
CRACK.
The sound is so loud it punches through the arena like a gunshot.
I jolt back in my seat as the puck slams into the plexiglass in front of us, hard enough to rattle the metal stanchions.
Every head in our section whips around.
And standing on the ice just past center line—stick held like a weapon—is Lucian Caulfield.
Helmet low.
Jaw tight.
His glare is fixed with laser precision. Not on me, but on the guy beside me. Lucian looks like he’s ready to jump the boards and beat the ever-loving shit out of him.
The guy blanches, pulling away from me with such speed that I’m surprised he doesn’t give himself whiplash.
I shouldn’t be grateful, because the possession dripping from Lucian’s glare is a whole other problem in itself.
Still, whether he caused a scene out of a false sense of possession or because he could see I was uncomfortable, I can’t deny that I’m relieved not to have that guy pushing his way into my space.
The referee’s whistle blasts across the ice, the nearest ref raising his arm as he skates over with practiced speed and a no-nonsense scowl. He points to Lucian.
“Unsportsmanlike conduct. Number twenty-eight; two minutes in the box.”
Lucian doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even seem to care. If anything, he lifts his chin in a moment of pride, fully accepting the consequences of his seemingly justified actions. Before he skates off, though, he cuts a look back at me.
The hardness of his stare softens somewhat, but that possession, that flaming look that says you’re mine and I’m going to make damn sure everyone knows it, burns into me. It scalds me from the inside out, stealing the breath from my lungs and leaving me hot in the otherwise cold arena.
I’m held captive in that stare for one. Two. Three. Four. Five long seconds before he turns and skates toward the penalty box, dropping onto the bench with all the fury of a man about to explode. I continue to stare at him, even as the game gets underway again.
Lucian Caulfield is a storm I should run from. So why does every part of me want to step into it?