Page 24 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

“Logan!” Walker’s voice broke through the chaos, but I couldn’t stop.

Teammates from both sides rushed in, grabbing us, pulling us apart, but I was still fighting, still throwing punches even as Lincoln grabbed me by the jersey and dragged me backward.

“You’re fucking dead, York!” Miller screamed, his face splattered with blood as he was held back by two of his teammates. His voice was shrill, desperate, but it only made me grin.

“Bring it, asshole!” I shouted back, wiping the blood from my lip with the back of my glove. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my girl walking off the ice in the other direction.

Lincoln shoved me toward our bench, his face red with frustration. “Get your head out of your ass, Logan! You’re not getting suspended over that idiot!”

I barely heard him. My eyes were locked on Miller, who was still trying to get at me despite all the people trying to hold him back.

I flipped him off with both hands, a maniacal grin splitting my face. “I’ll see you in Game Two, motherfucker!”

Lincoln pushed me toward the tunnel, shaking his head. “You’ve lost your fucking mind.”

I grinned through the blood, my pulse still racing. Ihadlost my mind. And I had a feeling this was only the beginning.

Bring it on.

CHAPTER5

SLOANE

Walking into the arena felt like stepping into another universe. The crowd was a sea of jerseys, blues, whites, and greens with numbers on the backs of players I’d never heard of—their names echoing through the halls as fans shouted and laughed. There were huge smiles on everyone’s faces, a lot of them already halfway to drunk by the looks of it. I watched a group of couples, all of them shouting over each other, so eager to talk. They suddenly held their beers up and all yelled at once.

Definitely a different universe. I couldn’t have felt more out of place if I tried.

I fidgeted with my coat, suddenly very aware that I was one of the only people not wearing a jersey. I’d thought about buying one at the shop outside, maybe blending in a little, but that idea died quickly. If that had been something that Tyler wanted, he would have communicated it to Everett. It wasn’t like he had forgotten the specifics of my outfit forafterthe game tonight: four—not three—inch strappy black heels and black lingerie that “showed a lot of boob.” I figured if he could specify that, he would have specified if he’d wanted a certain outfit at the game besides “for me to look hot.” Tyler hadn’t hired me for my deep understanding of slap shots and power plays. He didn’t expect a thrilling conversation about his job—or anything else. He just wanted me to play the part of the perfect girlfriend for the cameras during the series and entertain him after.

It was unfortunate that the idea of what came after made my stomach twist.

I mulled over our interaction before the game and how I was already annoyed by Tyler.

He tugged me closer, his grip tightening. “You ready to make me look good?”

I swallowed hard and nodded. “Always.”

“That’s my girl,” Tyler said, his voice low and possessive, like he was proud of himself for owning me for now.

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing another smile. I could play the part. I could pretend. But inside, I was already counting the minutes until it was over.

Narrowly missing being taken out by a woman’s long ponytail as she whipped around, I shook off my thoughts and walked up the tunnel that led to my seat.

I hesitated at the top, watching the players warming up on the ice. Some of the Dallas players were standing by the glass, talking to a group of gorgeous women in the front-row seats. I watched as the Dallas goalie held up his glove, and a woman who looked strangely familiar held up her hand on the other side to match him.

It was corny, but adorable, and there was a strange ache in my gut as I watched the group.

Having a partner in life, what did that feel like?

I couldn’t even comprehend it.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to steady the nerves rattling in my chest. This was just another job. Another game.

And I had chosen this.

That’s what I had to tell myself when the nights became long, and I wanted to throw up just from their touch, and it didn’t feel like I could continue.

I had chosen this.

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