Page 225 of Ruthless Kings of Havoc

“I’m fine,” I emphasize again, meeting Marcus’ concerned eyes. “We need to win this.”

“We?” he questions and watches the way I bob my head slightly. He seems to pick up swiftly before he bobs his head in understanding. “You fucking owe me.”

I huff at that, causing me to laugh. It seems to calm Zander down a bit to see me letting out a hint of emotion other than anger and annoyance.

“I swear you owe me one too many times, but please. Go off on that,” I encourage and correct my posture, ignoring the excruciating agony coursing through me.

Glancing in the direction of the VIP suite, my eyes catch onto those wide, wild eyes, worry consuming them when they lock onto me.

“Are you okay?” she quickly mouths to me, not caring that the camera is back on her.

I give her the best smile I can muster and mouth, “Yes. Stop worrying. It’s not cute.”

She takes an added second to understand my words, giving me the cutest pout that makes me snicker.

“Are you good, Leighton?” one of the medics asks and skids to a stop next to us.

“Been better,” I huff. “Keep going. I’ll get checked after.”

“You sure?” the next medic questions. “You fell hard, buddy. You could have a concussion.”

“I’m good,” I assure them with sternness. “We only have five minutes. It’s an easy win. Let me get payback.”

“Your brother is fucking insane,” the first medic says, glaring over at the man who doesn’t give a hoot about the dirty looks and glares pointed his way.

He catches my gaze, daring to smile with pride flickering in his dark brown eyes.

Cocky fucker.

The joke is on him because he thinks injuring my right arm is going to do shit.

I’m predominantly left-handed. He’s fucking stupid.

“Back into it,” I announce, forcing my body to move, knowing I need to or else my ribs will lock in, and I’ll be down for the count.

Hockey is child’s play compared to the ring. Have your legs broken and see how painful fighting back is. Ren was still alive back then. The fucker got me through the toughest fights and recoveries before he was left for dead.

I try not to think about it for too long, or else I’ll start seeing red. With all this pulsing energy fumbling with my emotions, I’d do something stupid and fuck up my deal.

All of this is perfect.

Domino doesn’t even realize how he’s set me up for success and encouraged his downfall in the very sport he’s desperate to save.

It can’t get better than this.

The game is back on, and despite the intentional hit to take me out, they don’t give Domino a penalty. I’m sure that’s a call from those across the crowd observing our every move.

I have ten teams fighting to get me on their team in the NHL All-Star Leagues. This will only encourage more frenzy and chaos.

The countdown is on, and we’re already in the final seconds.

“MATTEO!” When Marcus passes me the puck, I can hear the gasps as Domino and I chase the puck.

We race down the ice, keeping up to the same speed as it seems no one else stands a fighting chance of catching up and aiding in this final chance to take our shot.

Their goalie is prepared, ready to stop the puck by any means. Their eyes are focused on my right hand, which can barely hold on to my stick.

Multiple people have to have noticed, but I remain calm and determined as my target is in sight.

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