Chapter 46
~Daley~
The roar of the crowd when Deacon steps back onto the ice is a deafening, bone-rattling vibration that seeps through the concrete walls from the stands above.
The camera zooms in on his handsome face, now sporting a bandage across his nose and a plastic face-guard offering some degree of added protection.
He waves up at the cheering fans in acknowledgement before turning straight to the camera and giving a slow, deliberate wink, one corner of his mouth curling up in a devastating smirk.
If I weren’t already sitting, my knees might have given way. He’s that sexy, and somehow, against all rational odds, he’s mine.
The puck drops to start the third period, and the energy on the ice is as intense as any playoff game.
Every movement crackles with purpose. The Wolves are up by one, but Sioux Falls is fighting for more than a win; they're playing for their captain.
Any time Deacon steps onto the ice, a teammate is there, a shadow in a purple jersey ready to step in if needed.
Four minutes in, the Wolves strike again. The red goal light flashes, and the arena erupts as Erik pumps his fist in the air, celebrating his shot on a perfect feed from Deacon. But even with a two-goal lead, the intensity doesn’t let up and neither does Brady.
My heart leaps into my throat as Deacon takes the puck behind the Oregon net on his next shift.
I don’t need to see Brady on the screen to know what’s coming, and sure enough, a second later, he swoops into view, a predator honing in on his target.
However, before he can deliver the inevitable hit, another player barrels into him from the side, sending him sprawling across the ice.
The arena explodes, cheers mixing with the sharp blast of the referee’s whistle.
Brady scrambles to his feet, his lips moving in rapid-fire aggression. I can’t make out the words, but the effect is immediate. The Wolves player who hit him launches forward, gloves hitting the ice, fists already swinging.
The camera angle shifts, and my stomach plummets.
River.
A strangled noise catches in my throat as I leap off the couch, moving instinctively toward the TV as if I could somehow separate them through the screen.
On the ice, Deacon tries to do just that. He wedges himself between them, his back to Brady, shielding River as best he can.
The whistles keep blowing, shrill and unrelenting, as Brady’s teammates drag him back and Deacon pushes River away. Brady still isn’t done, though. He shouts something else, his lips forming words the TV can’t quite capture, but whatever he says, it lands with pinpoint accuracy.
Deacon stiffens.
His fingers loosen from River’s jersey.
A heartbeat later, his glove hits the ice and he spins around, his fist crashing into Brady’s jaw.
The sound of impact barely registers over the roar of the crowd, but I feel it as a jolt in my chest, a phantom ache in my own knuckles. The Oregon defenceman crumples to the ice and the fans explode in approval.
My phone vibrates against my leg, but it takes a second to tear my eyes away from the screen.
Shit!
That was crazy.
They’re both okay, so breathe.
I exhale shakily as I read Jane's texts, only now realizing I’d been holding my breath. My gaze snaps back to the screen just in time to see Deacon and River standing side by side, talking to each other with no new blood visible. They’re okay. Breathe.
The penalties come down swiftly, with five minutes for fighting for both River and Brady.
Deacon, however, gets a game misconduct.
The arena’s energy shifts, the eruption of cheers dulling into a rumble of boos, shaking the stands above me. I agree with them, but I also understand the call. The fight had ended. The whistles had blown. Deacon’s punch was a statement, not part of the game.
And I know with certainty that whatever Brady said, he deserved every bit of it.
Deacon leaves the ice, saying a few words to his coach before disappearing down the tunnel and out of the camera’s view.
The same tunnel that leads to me.
My legs move before I consciously tell them to. When I poke my head into the hall, he’s already there, stalking toward me with purpose.
“Come here,” he calls out, beckoning me towards him. “Gotta ice my hand.”
I blow out another breath and fall into step beside him as we head back to the medical office. The doctor assesses his right hand with quick efficiency. His knuckles are red and swelling, but the skin isn’t broken. A flexible ice pack is wrapped around it, and the doctor leaves us alone again.
I step forward, undoing the chin strap of his helmet and lifting it off. His hair is damp with sweat clinging to the strands in a way that makes him look both exhausted and devastatingly handsome. Frustration is written into every line of his face, simmering hot just beneath the surface.
“What happened?” I ask softly.
His exhale comes out hard, almost a grunt. “You didn’t see me lose my cool?”
“Oh, I saw it. It was a damn good punch.” I offer him a smile to let him know I’m on his side. “But what happened?”
He sighs once more, softer this time. “During the first period, he made a few comments under his breath about Megan, how he satisfied her like I never could. Shit meant to get under my skin.”
I bite back the curse sitting on my tongue.
“Thing is, it wasn’t getting to me. I didn’t care. So, when I got back out there, he changed tactics.” Deacon lifts his gaze and I see it in his eyes before he even says it. “Started talking about you instead.”
My stomach knots. “He knows who I am?”
“Looks like it.” Deacon’s voice remains steady, but something darker swims beneath it. “And after River hit him, Brady turned his taunts on him instead. Told him maybe he’d take a turn on his mom too.”
Revulsion curls in my gut, and based on the fire in Deacon’s eyes, he feels the same. “That’s why River fought him?”
“Sure is, and I don’t blame the kid. I only tried to break up the fight because Brady’s got fifty pounds on him and I didn’t want River to get hurt.”
“I appreciate that.” My fingers trail over his cheek as the distant roar of the crowd spikes again. Another goal, maybe? Neither of us looks. Our focus stays locked on each other. “I’m guessing he said something similar to you, then?”
Deacon nods. “I won’t repeat what he said, but trust me that he deserved that punch and a hell of a lot more.”
“I do trust you. Completely.” I lean in to place a soft kiss on his lips, tilting my head to the side enough that my nose doesn’t touch his before straightening again.
Deacon’s eyes close briefly before he leans his forehead against mine. His breath is warm against my skin, still laced with the lingering heat of adrenaline. “I should have been more disciplined. I knew he was trying to rile me up. I knew it and I let him do it anyway.”
“So, you’re human,” I summarize.
He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, but I’m also the captain. This isn’t the example I want to set for my team or for the younger fans.”
“You’ll have a chance to talk to the press after the game, right?”
“Unfortunately,” he groans.
I don’t think it’s unfortunate at all in this case.
“You’ll have a chance to explain yourself, and to apologize if you want to.
You can set the example that we all make mistakes but it’s how we handle them that matters.
You gave me grace over my past mistakes, and people want to think the best of you too. Give them a chance to.”
He mulls that over for a moment. “I avoided talking about Megan and Brady for months because I thought it would make me look weak. If I bring it up now…”
“... then people will know you’re human,” I repeat softly. “And you don’t need to bring it up directly. Focus on what happened tonight. Let people read between the lines.”
He nods again, looking a little more certain. “I should go shower. You go watch the rest of the game. I’ll find you afterwards.”
“You’re not going to watch?”
His confident smile makes my knees weak all over again. “I already know we won.”
Strange as it seems after the way this evening went, I kind of feel that way too.