Page 21 of Pucking the Team

But it’s too late. Lukas makes a careless pass, sending the puck skittering right onto the tape of an opposing forward. The guy doesn’t hesitate, snapping a quick wrister that beats our goalie blocker side.

The goal horn sounds, and my stomach drops like a stone. Tie game. Sudden death overtime looming. And it’s all Lukas’s fault.

White-hot rage surges through my veins, obliterating the pain and fatigue. I charge across the ice, skating right up into Lukas’s face.

“What the actual fuck was that?” I snarl, my voice shaking with barely-contained fury. “You just cost us the goddamn game!”

Lukas pulls off his helmet and shoves me hard in the chest, his green eyes flashing with anger. “Back off, man. It was one fucking mistake.”

But I’m beyond reason, beyond control. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m winding up, my gloved fist crashing into Lukas’s perfect jaw with a sickening crack.

Instantly, the ice erupts into chaos.

Players from both teams swarm us, gloves and sticks littering the ice as they try to pry us apart. The refs’ whistles screech, signaling penalties as Lukas and I grapple and swear.

My pulse pounds in my ears, nearly drowning out the outraged roar of the crowd. Adrenaline sings in my blood, and my knuckles throb with a dull, satisfying ache.

As the linesmen finally separate us, the enormity of what I’ve done starts to sink in. This will mean a suspension for sure. Fines. Maybe even legal consequences.

But in that moment, I can’t bring myself to care. All I feel is the savage rush of catharsis, the vindication of finally releasing years’ worth of pent-up resentment and jealousy in one perfect punch.

Lukas can have his golden boy charm and his highlight reel goals.

Right now, the only thing that matters is the look of stunned disbelief on his bleeding face and the knowledge that I put it there.

CHAPTER 9

EMMA

My eyes burn as I stare at the computer screen, scrolling through endless tweets and posts. It’s been three days since Ryan punched Lukas on the ice, and I’m still reeling from the fallout. I’ve spent every waking hour crafting press releases and social media posts to contain the damage, but nothing seems to be working.

A knock startles me from my thoughts. I glance up to see Chloe poking her head into my cubicle, concern etched into her brow.

“How are you holding up?” she asks, pulling up a chair beside me.

I force a smile, hoping to reassure her. “Hanging in there. It’s been a lot, but I’m getting a handle on things.”

Chloe nods, patting my arm. “I know it’s been tough, but you’re doing an amazing job.”

“Thanks, Chloe,” I say. “How are you holding up? This has been a mess for the whole PR and marketing team, even for those of us who aren’t…” I wave a hand at her pregnant belly.

Chloe shoots me a tired half-grin. “I’m pretty tired, as you can imagine! I just got out of a strategy meeting with Coach Daniels. As part of Ryan’s ‘penance tour,’” Chloe continues, “he’ll be visiting a children’s charity in Detroit next week. I’d like you to accompany him to help repair his image. We need an onslaught of posts—photos, reels, the whole shebang. Every person on the internet needs to think of Ryan Thompson as that hockey player who helps kids, and erase the memory of that hockey player who hits his teammate.”

My stomach churns at the thought of traveling alone with Ryan, but I nod. “That makes sense. I’m happy to go along.”

After Chloe leaves, I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. I’m not looking forward to this trip. Ryan and I haven’t crossed paths much, and the little that I know about him doesn’t make him seem like a fun travel companion.

He’s serious, gruff, and standoffish.

Not to mention, you know, physically violent.

My mind keeps drifting to Lukas. I can’t stop picturing the blood dripping from his split lip onto the ice and the way panic clawed up my throat at the sight. Like I had any business getting worked up over him.

Like he was my boyfriend or something.

We haven’t had any time together since then, so I haven’t been able to check on him. I’m sure he’s fine, but I still feel this deep need to make sure of that for myself.

And when I’m not consumed by worry for him, my thoughts go in other directions, like the memory of his gaze locking with mine across the bar, the heat that flooded my body when his hands closed around my waist as he pulled me onto the dance floor.

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