Page 63 of Break the Ice
“You might not know it, Philly. But I’ve been here many times before.”
“You backstabbing shitbag! I knew it was you with Tiff!”
“Is it really backstabbing when I never had your back in the first place?” I ponder aloud. I stroll around the open space of the Morasca entertainment room and pretend like I’m interested in half the crap on display.
Morasca being Morasca has taken the opportunity to cover the walls in sports memorabilia like a framed photograph of him and Wayne Gretzky and a signed NFL jersey from Joe Nash. The few career highlights he’s had like being MVP at Hamline University are sprinkled around the room full of leather and big ticket electronics.
“It’s backstabbing ’cuz she’s a married woman!”
“Are you sure about that? ’Cuz she’s all over the dating sites calling herself Heather and claiming she’s divorced. But, believe it or not, Philly, I didn’t come to talk about Tiffany being a cheating slut. I came to talk about your behavior earlier.”
He goes cockeyed from his level of confusion. “Even if I had a clue what the fuck you were talking about, I wouldn’t give a shit what you’ve got to say! You’re rotten to the core, Golding, and I’m going to make sure everybody knows?—”
“Raising your voice at Ms. March won’t be tolerated,” I interrupt, indifferent to every other word out of his mouth. I stick my hands in my pockets and lean against the display case of Wolves memorabilia he’s collected. “Neither is issuing threats or any other aggressive behavior. In fact, how about you just stay the fuck away from her, and there won’t be any trouble for you.”
“You think you can break into my home and threaten me?!”
“Actually, I walked right in. Your wife keeps the gate unlocked for me.”
“You think you’re gonna come up in here after all the shit you’ve pulled and lecture me on my behavior about the chick you called Sugar Tits? You’re a fucking crazy shithead!”
“That’s the thing, Philly,” I say coolly. “Do as I say, not as I do. I’m Alpha and can do whatever the fuck I want. Fuck your wife. Stroll into your home. Teach you a lesson about belittling Ms. March. Are you understanding how this works now?”
“I’ve had enough!” Phil screeches.
He shoots straight for me. His fist sails wide of my face. I step to the side before he can swing a second time and twist his arm behind his back. He’s shaken by the script being flipped and lets me rattle him like a ventriloquist’s dummy. My arm bars across his windpipe to cut off the air he’s breathing.
Less than five seconds later, he’s found himself trapped in a submission hold.
“Letgoofme!” he roars. He jerks against me to break free, stomping his feet and bucking his head back.
We crash into the display case. The glass shatters. Pieces of wood snap in half. The entire case collapses in on itself.
Apparently, this is going to be messier than I anticipated.
I adapt in the moment and go to tighten my submission hold around his neck. Morasca’s determined to be damn near impossible to pin down. He windmills his arms and legs in every direction. We stumble along the shards of broken glass as he manages to snatch hold of one, slicing at me with it.
The sharp glass cuts into the inside of my forearm. A howl rumbles out of me as I let go of him.
He rushes at me, hoping for better luck on his second attempt. At least this time he’s got more than those uncoordinated fists—he’s clutching the glass shard now dripping with my blood.
I jump back, then duck low, then land a shot to his torso. I grab his arm with the shard and muscle it out of his hold. I’m on another roll from the moment I’ve slammed his wrist and made him drop the piece of glass.
Gripping him from behind, I drive his head toward the wall. I slam it so damn hard his face leaves a cracked imprint in the plaster. Slam one of many, many more to come. You’d think I were an artist the way his blood spatter decorates the wall.
Morasca’s nose cracks all over again. The stitches on the gash he’d had on his forehead from our last fight busts open.
It’s not on my mind even once to stop—the smack of his skull into the wall has become therapeutic in the most fucked up way. If this were on the ice, the refs and other players and everybody else would’ve broken us up by now.
This is the brawl with Phil Morasca I’ve been waiting for.
Tiffany’s scream breaks me out of the violent trance. I let go of Morasca’s thinning hair and he flops to the ground, already unconscious.
“Rafe Golding, what the fuck have you done!?” she screeches. Terror freezes her face more than her premature Botox does. “Stop it or you’ll kill him!”
I wipe his blood off on my shirt. “He’ll be fine. He’s breathing. Sort of.”
“You’re nothing but a fucking menace—what was I thinking getting involved with you?”
