Page 96 of Slap Shot Daddies

Then, without warning, Ambrose barrels into me. I barely catch a glimpse of his determined expression before his shoulder crashes into my ribs, sending a shockwave through my body and knocking me off balance.

I stumble, catching myself just in time, then whirl around, fury igniting in my chest like a wildfire.

I don’t think.

I just react.

My fist flies through the air, connecting with his jaw, the impact reverberating up my arm like a lightning strike. Ambrose staggers back, eyes wide, staring at me as if I’ve just committed a grave betrayal.

Coach’s whistle shrieks through the air, cutting through the tension. "Reggie, what the hell was that? Get back in formation before I throw your ass off my ice!"

Ambrose grins, wiping a trickle of blood from his jaw with the back of his hand. He looks amused, the bastard, and that only fuels my anger further.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to skate back into formation. But inside me, a storm rages, and I know I’m not done.

I don't wait long. The instant the next drill begins, I pivot as if I'm going left, then drive my shoulder hard into Ambrose's chest.

He lets out a grunt, his skates skidding, nearly losing his balance on the slick ice. The satisfaction rushes through me. Payback, you smug bastard.

Suddenly, fists are flying.

Ambrose grips my jersey with a fierce determination, attempting to drag me down, but I’m quicker, my knuckles connecting sharply with his abdomen.

“Ye wanna keep pushin’, Ambrose?” I snarl, my grip firm on the collar of his jersey, our breaths mingling in frosty clouds.

He shoves back, his eyes blazing with defiance. “You think I’m gonna let you get the last hit?” he hisses, leaning into the fight.

Around us, teammates are scrambling, their shouts blending with the shrill blasts of Coach’s whistle. The ice beneath our blades is a chaotic mess of scratches, our lungs working overtime with the surge of adrenaline and fury.

“ENOUGH!” Coach’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. “If you two don’t get your bullshit under control you’ll both be off the team! Get off the fucking ice and go take some cold showers!”

Neither of us budges, our glares locked in a silent battle.

“I said NOW!” Coach booms, authority crackling in his tone.

I skate off, muscles tense, my jaw clenched, the blood in my veins racing like wildfire. Ambrose trails behind, his curses tumbling out in a low, angry stream.

The moment the locker room door slams shut behind us, Ambrose and I rip off our gloves, our breaths coming fast and heavy as we eye each other like two rabid dogs ready to pounce.

"Ye absolute bastard!" I snarl, shoving him hard in the chest, my hand meeting the firm resistance of his padded hockey gear. "Ye had tae go and start somethin’ on the ice, didn’t ye?"

Ambrose barely stumbles, his skates scraping against the floor, before lunging forward, his fists clenching my jersey with a fierce grip. "Oh, don’t act like you’re innocent in this, Reggie! You threw the first punch, you reckless shit!"

"Aye, because ye skated at me like a fuckin’ battering ram!" I snap back, grabbing the collar of his jersey and pulling him down so our foreheads nearly collide, our eyes locked in a furious stare.

He grits his teeth, his jaw tight, and shoves back against me. "Because you won’t stop running your damn mouth!"

We grapple, twisting and shoving, our skates squeaking against the tile floor as we struggle for dominance. A metal bench digs painfully into my side as Ambrose tries to wrestle me down onto it.

I retaliate by driving an elbow into his ribs, not hard enough to cause real damage, but enough to make him back off momentarily. He grunts, a sharp exhalation, but refuses to relent.

We exchange a few half-hearted swings, wild and sloppy punches that barely connect, more about venting our frustration than inflicting pain. It’s the pent-up anger that fuels our clumsy blows, not a desire to hurt.

After a few more seconds of grunting and shoving, our energy wanes, and we both collapse back onto the bench, chests heaving, sweat dripping down our faces.

I rub my face with a hand, wiping away the perspiration. "Fuck," I mutter, the word escaping in a breathless sigh.

“Yeah, fuck. This is about Kenzie, isn’t it?” he finally mutters, his voice low and simmering with accusation.

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