Page 43 of Pucking Fake

"You pissed about your girl being all over the news?"

I shoot him a dark glare.

"Figured," he grunts. "Want some advice?"

"Fuck no."

"Too bad. I'm in an advice-giving mood."

"Since fucking when?" I eye him sideways. The only advice Jordan ever gives is fuck and off, usually when someone is pissing him off. And that's all the warning they get before their faces become intimately acquainted with his fists. It's why he spends so much damn time in the penalty box.

"Since now." He purses his lips, staring at me for a moment. "Don't be another asshole in her life who lets her down because you're feeling sorry for yourself over whatever bullshit you're telling yourself over there. You dragged her into this. She'scounting on you to lead her through it. Get your head out of your ass and lead."

"I'm not feeling sorry for myself," I growl.

"Really? Because that puck went right between your legs. Literally right between them." He extends his arms and brings them down between his legs, whistling. "And you were off in another world, thinking deep thoughts about the goddamn lights."

"I was thinking about you, actually, you prick. You know how much I love that pretty face of yours."

"Take my advice or leave it," he says, flipping me off. "Doesn't matter to me either way. You'll be the one who regrets it if you leave it, though."

I stare at him for a long minute, shaking my head. "I liked you better when you sat over there and didn't say anything."

His lips curve into a smirk. "Maybe I'm a changing man."

"Yeah, that's bullshit. You've been in a pissy mood all night, and that's saying something because you're always a cranky motherfucker. What the fuck is going on with you? Since you're all up in my goddamn business, I'm stepping into yours."

"Nothing."

"Right. You're just extra fucking cranky and weird for no reason." I roll my eyes. "That makes total sense."

"The past is a bitch," he finally mutters.

"Oh. Oh, shit." My eyes wide, realization dawning like a hammer blow. "We're playing the Bucks."

He jerks his chin in a nod.

"I'm an asshole."

"You expecting me to disagree or something?"

"Fuck." I scrub a hand down my face. No wonder he's so goddamn moody. Jordan used to play for them before he and Jamison Peters, their captain, came to blows in the middle of a game. It was nasty. He knocked Jamison out, and teammanagement gave him the boot. It almost cost him his career. He's fucking hated Peters since. "I'm sorry, man. You good?"

"I'm fine," he growls. "Why does everyone always ask me that shit?"

"Uh…you mean aside from the obvious?"

Jordan scowls at me.

"Mostly because people actually give a shit," I say quietly. "Peters is a dick, but we like you. We ask because we're ten toes down, standing behind you. If you decide you need to hit the prick again, we'll throw elbows and cause a scene. They can't boot us all."

"He's right," Archer says, picking his way across to us.

Jordan and I both look at him in surprise. Archer can be aggressive as hell on the ice, but he rarely starts fights. He damn sure knows how to finish them, though.

"We ask because we care," he murmurs to Jordan. "And we ask because we want to know if we're playing nice or starting a riot. Either way, we've got your back, fucker. Get your shit on. It's time to hit the ice."

"Jesus Christ," Jordan mutters, glancing between the two of us like he's never seen us before tonight. Guess he hasn't been paying attention. We're a fucking team. We ride together; we die together. That's how this shit works. Fuck Peters and the Bucks. If Jordan wants to spill blood, we're down.

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