Page 143 of Brutal Game

I was up on my feet, yelling. But Jack had already shoved both defensemen off him, regaining control of the puck. He deked to the left, and the defense fell for it. Then, as the crowd watched in enraptured silence, Jack executed a snap shot—a combination of a wrist shot and slapshot.

The puck flew straight into the net, past the goalie.

The horn sounded.

I stood there frozen.

They’d won.

The Kings had won the championship.

And Jack had scored the last point that got them there.

Then I was yelling in joy, as the crowd cheered and absolute bedlam ensued. I ran down the steps toward the ice, and Jack was there, lifting me into his arms and skating around with me in circles.

“You did it,” I said, kissing him.

“I did it,” he replied, kissing me back. I expected him to look shellshocked, but instead he looked smug. “We did it, actually. But then I knew we would. How could I not, when I have you?”

“You’re cheesy as fuck,” I told him.

He sobered. “None of this matters, Aviva, without you. You know that, right?”

I kissed him again. “I do.”

“Good,” he said, skating me back to where his team was celebrating. “Let’s go home so I can fuck your pretty little pussy until you beg me to stop. How does that sound, princess?”

It sounded pretty perfect to me.

EPILOGUE (TWO)

Isaac

She was late.

I’d agreed to this bullshit interview for the Daily Queen, partly out of loyalty to Jack’s girl, partly out of curiosity, and partly for my own purposes. But I had plans tonight—plans that involved very enthusiastic triplets—and I didn’t have time for little journalists who couldn’t even keep track of time.

As I rose to leave the bar, she came running in. Her hair was in her face, her shirt was partially unbuttoned. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked freshly fucked. A growl rose in my throat, but I immediately tamped it down. I didn’t get jealous, or territorial. Especially over girls that got around like Tovah Kaufman did.

So then why did the idea of some other douchebag fucking her make me want to throw this pitcher of beer against the wall?

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “Something distracted me.”

I looked her up and down, aware I was leering. “I’m sure it did.”

She glared at me, but didn’t defend herself.

“I agreed to this interview under the impression that you’d be respectful of my time,” I told her.

She sat, ignoring the glass I pushed toward her. “You know, you come off as this easy going charmer to everyone else. Why do I get this grumpy asshole whenever we talk?”

I grunted in response.

“See!” Her eyes flashed in triumph. “I don’t know what I did to hurt you, Isaac, but?—”

Her mere existence hurt me. Knowing she breathed the same air as me, after what she’d done—thathurt me. Seeing her face at night, in my dreams, when I jacked off in the shower, when I was fucking some other nameless, faceless girl or woman—thathurt me.

And she was going to pay.

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