Page 54 of Pucks, Lies, and Sticktape

“On the line! On the line!” Matthieu bellowed, but no whistle came. No salvation.

Where’s the ref?

Where’s the ref?!

WHERE IS THE DARN REF?!

He was taking a beating—skates scraping too close, a boot smashing into his wrist, ice spraying in his face like needles. Someone raked their stick across his glove, trying to pry him open. His muscles screamed, fire licking up his arms as he clung to that puck with everything he had.

Not today.

Not on his watch.

Not in front of his team.

Not with Jeannie watching.

Not on his freakin’ wedding day.

Finally—finally—that piercing whistle cut through the madness. Matthieu shoved off the ice, surging to his feet with rage burning in his eyes.

“’Bout time,” he growled, turning on the referee with all the fury of a man pushed too far. His chest heaved, sweat slicking the inside of his helmet as his glare locked onto the official. “If I get any more men up in my space, I’m gonna need a pregnancy test. I have never felt so screwed before in my life. Where the heck were you?”

The arena thundered around him—a relentless cacophony of jeers, howls, and venomous curses. The boards rattled from fists and sticks pounding against the plexiglass, a chaotic war drum of the enemy’s home crowd. Matthieu could barely hear his own thoughts over the noise, but he didn’t need to. He already knew the score—both on the board and in the way the refs were calling this game.

It was one thing to play dirty. It was another to watch the officials let it slide like it was part of the game plan.

His pulse pounded in his ears, matching the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he adjusted his stance. His muscles were tight, coiled like a loaded spring, ready to explode at the next drop of the puck. He shot a glare at the referee, the anger in his veins boiling hotter than his body heat trapped under layers of pads.

“Are you kidding me?” he barked, his breath fogging in the frigid air. But the ref didn’t even acknowledge him or didn’t spare him a glance. Just skated away, eyes locked on the puck like Matthieu’s outrage didn’t exist.

That was it. That was all he needed to confirm what he already knew. They weren’t getting a darn thing this period. No calls. No breaks. No mercy.

Fine. He’d play like a man who knew it.

He shifted his weight, his skates biting into the ice as he crouched slightly lower in the crease. From this distance, one quick shot—one sniper with a clear lane—and they could bury another goal behind him before he even had a chance to react. He had to be on his toes. Had to block everything. Had to fight.

But all he wanted to do was look at Jeannie.

No.

No distractions.

Focus.

Focus.

And it’s down—darn it!

The puck hit the ice once again.

The opposing center won the faceoff clean, snapping the puck back to the point. A slapshot rang out like a gunshot, the puck whipping toward him at breakneck speed. Matthieu’s heart slammed against his ribs as he dropped into position. He barely got his pad on it, the rubber rebounding off his thigh with a dull thud, but the play was still alive.

Skates slashed the ice like knives. Sticks clattered, chopping violently, battling for possession inches from his crease. The air was thick with the grunts and snarls of players shoving, muscling, clawing for control.

“ACTON, GET HIM OFF OF ME!” Matthieu roared, his voice ripping through the chaos as bodies crashed in front of him.

No room.

---