Page 60 of Stick Handled

“Shut your fuck’n mouth,” I growl.

Jake leans in, his smirk widening. “You should keep your girl on a leash. I think she liked grinding on my dick.”

And that’s it. I don’t think. I don’t breathe. I drop my gloves, grab him by the collar, and land the first punch square in his mouth. He stumbles back, but I’m on him before he can recover, slamming him into the boards so hard the glass rattles.

“Get the fuck off me,” he spits, his hands coming up to shove me back, but I’m not done. I yank his helmet off and toss it aside.

I respond by yanking him down by his jersey. My fist connects with his jaw, then his cheekbone. He tries to throw a punch, but I block it easily, slamming him onto the ice.

The whistles are deafening now. Refs are screaming, players swarming. Someone grabs my arms, trying to pull me off, but I shake them off. Jake’s face is bloody, and he’s coughing but still smirking.

“How is it, man?” he croaks, spitting blood. “Bet DiMarco’s little sister must be all pink and tight down there. We should share her some time—”

That’s when I see red. Completely, utterly red. I pull him by the jersey, my fist pounding into his face over and over.

Jake shoves me, gets up, and tries to skate backward, but I grab his jersey again and yank him back down, pinning him down with my knees. My fist connects with his jaw.

“Colton, that’s enough! Get off him!” one of the refs shouts, skating over to pull me away.”

“Get control of your guy, Brown!” another ref yells toward Coach.

Jake tries to swing back, landing a weak hit to my ribs, but it doesn’t matter. I slam him into the ice as the crowd gasps. My knuckles keep connecting with his face.

“Damien, stop!” It’s Rowan’s voice now, sharp and cutting. He’s skating toward me, his face a mask of fury, but I don’t stop. Not when Jake’s still mouthing off.

“That’s enough, Colton!” the head ref shouts, blowing his whistle repeatedly. I barely register the linesmen trying to pull me back. Two of them grab my arms, and it takes both of them to drag me off him. My chest heaves as I stumble backward, blood dripping from my knuckles. Jake’s lying on the ice, grunting through the mess of blood and developing bruises on his face.

“You’re a fucking psycho, Colton,” he groans, spitting out blood as medics rush to his side.

“Get him off the fucking ice,” Coach yells from the bench, his face red with anger. “Now!”

The arena is chaos. Fans are shouting, the announcers scrambling to make sense of what just happened. Players from both teams are screaming at each other, and the refs are trying to regain control. But the damage is done.

“Suspension, Colton!” the head ref snaps, pointing at me as two linesmen skate me toward the bench.

I look up, my eyes scanning the sea of shouting people. Finally, I spot my girl already looking at me, worry written all over her face. Suddenly, the arena goes silent, the shouts and whistle blows turning into nothing as I watch her. Her lips are moving, but the sound of her voice doesn’t reach me. But I know what she’s saying. She’s calling out my name. God, this isn’t how I wanted this game to go. I should be out there playing instead of spending time in the fucking box. How much time are they giving me?

I glance back at the rink, my senses coming back to life as the sound of everyone roaring comes back.

My eyes land on Rowan who’s looking at me, shaking his head in disapproval.

My helmet is gone, my hair sticking to my sweat-soaked forehead as I glance up at the scoreboard and then to Coach Brown, who’s walking toward me. No, he’s stomping toward me. Shit.

“Match penalty, Colton,” he roars in my face.Fuck.

The night air is cool against my skin, and my ears are still ringing from the loud music. I lean back in the lounge chair, legs stretched out, whiskey glass dangling loosely from my fingers. The lights from the pool ripple across the water, creating fractured patterns on the patio around me.

The Panthers won.

Even with me out for most of the game, the guys held their own. They worked their asses off and pulled it off. A win is a win, but it didn’t feel like one—not for me. Not when I had to watch it play out from the side, pacing like a caged animal.

Press conferences followed—a chance to explain myself in that careful, media-friendly way the team expects. Coach gave me hell, Rowan was on my ass the entire way home, and then there was the party.

I should’ve let the victory party take me under like I usually do, surrounded by music, noise, and whatever distraction I want at my fingertips. But tonight, the noise grated, the crowd felt suffocating, and the usual offer of girls throwing themselves my way seemed so fucking hollow. They’re not my girl.

So now, I’m here. Alone. The drink burns its way down, not doing a damn thing to take the edge off.

My gaze drifts upward to her window before I can stop it.

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