Page 23 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

I passed the puck to Lincoln and then went after Miller again, shoulder checking him so he went sprawling.

The ref’s whistle blew.

“Fuck!” I growled as the ref signaled me to the penalty box…for the third time this game.

“Shame, shame, shame,” Tampa Bay’s fans screamed as I made my way to the bench.

I plopped down dejectedly, throwing off my helmet and running my hands through my sweaty hair, trying to catch my breath. I could feel the eyes on me—the coaches, the fans…her.

Tampa Bay scored again, and I raced back on the ice. But we were done. They got back the puck almost immediately, and we spent the rest of the period just making sure they didn’t score again.

The final buzzer echoed through the arena like a death knell, and my senses came back enough to feel the burning disappointment—and shame—that came with the loss. Tampa had taken Game One on our home ice. All the anticipation for tonight…

My chest heaved as I stared at the scoreboard, blinking away the sting of sweat dripping into my eyes.

The noise around me was deafening, but it felt distant, muffled under layers of frustration and rage.

They were letting what looked like Tampa family members onto the ice like this was fucking Game Seven, flooding the surface with their obnoxious cheers. Security? Nowhere to be found.

“Unbelievable,” Camden muttered next to me, his face mirroring my disappointment and disgust as we made our way back across the ice to go to the locker room.

I stopped in my tracks when I saw the girl come out, a small almost amused smirk on her lips as she tried not to slip in high heels that had no business being on the ice.

They made her ass look amazing, though. My head dipped to the side as I watched her walk.

If the guys thought I’d lost it already, it was no match for how I lost it right then.

I skated straight toward her, not thinking, not caring. The crowd didn’t matter. The loss didn’t matter. I had one thing on my mind.

She looked up, her eyes wide as I reached her, and before she could say a word, I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her into me.

“Wh—at,” she gasped.

Without a second thought, I dipped her back dramatically, my hand firm on her lower back as I kissed her, right there in the middle of the ice, in front of everyone. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a statement. A middle finger to Miller. A claim.

I’d thought that the moment on the ice when everything faded was as close to perfect as life could get.

But I’d been wrong.

Thiswas what perfection felt like, her warm body in my hands, her lips against mine.

The crowd roared, some cheering, some gasping, but I didn’t hear any of it. All I could focus on was her—how she froze for a second, then melted into the kiss, her hands grabbing at my jersey for balance. For that brief moment, it felt like we were all alone in the most perfect moment known to humankind.

Until I heard Miller’s fucking voice.

“What the fuck?!”

I barely had time to react before I felt his hands shove me hard, knocking me off-balance. I let go of her, staggering back, and I saw her slip on the ice, her arms flailing as she went down. Miller didn’t even notice, his eyes locked on me, looking like he wanted to kill me. But I noticed.

Something inside me flared white-hot.

I reached out to help her up, but before I could do anything he was lunging toward me.

“You son of a?—”

My fists flew before my brain even caught up. The first punch landed hard, right on his jaw, sending him stumbling back. But he came at me fast, his shoulder driving into my chest as we both crashed to the ice, fists flying. I got in another hit, square in his ribs, before he managed to swing wildly, his knuckles clipping my lip.

The crowd exploded. The sound was deafening—cheers, screams, gasps—but it didn’t matter. I could barely hear any of it over the rush of adrenaline. Miller’s fists were everywhere, but I was faster, stronger, and the next punch I threw hit him square in the nose, blood splattering across the ice.

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