Page 39 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

And that was the fact that I wanted her.

My stomach churned, a wave of nausea hitting me hard as I watched. I had the urge to take my stick and drive it through his brain; it was all I could do to stop myself.

He kissed her like he was marking his territory, like he owned her, and she…she looked miserable.

Of course she did. She felt the same thing I did.

Or at least that was what I was telling myself.

By the time I hit the locker room, I already had a plan.

A crazy plan.

It wasn’t the kind of plan I’d ever envisioned for myself, but I didn’t care. I needed Tyler out of the picture, at least for tonight.

I’d focus on forever after that.

* * *

Later that night I sat in a corner booth in the hotel bar where the Tampa players were staying, my hat pulled low over my eyes as I watched Miller at the counter, getting hammered.

I mean, fuck, he was making this way too easy. We were in the fucking finals. He couldn’t just drink water for a few days?

And where was Sloane? If I had her, you can bet I wouldn’t be spending a second away from her if I could help it.

Just further evidence Tyler Miller was a fucking idiot…and that he didn’t deserve her.

Miller was leaning closer and closer to the bartender like a vulture circling its prey. She was young—mid-twenties, maybe—with sharp, dark eyes and a no-nonsense air about her. But even her best efforts to stay polite weren’t enough to keep Miller at bay.

“You’re really gonna pretend you don’t know who I am?” he slurred, flashing her a grin that probably worked on puck bunnies but looked ridiculous now. “Come on, sweetheart. Take a guess.”

She didn’t even glance at him, just poured another drink for someone else and slid it across the counter. Her lips were pressed into a tight, professional smile, but I caught the subtle roll of her eyes as she moved to the other end of the bar.

Tyler, however, wasn’t the kind of guy who took being ignored lightly.

“Hey,” he called, rapping his knuckles on the bar. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

She paused, her shoulders stiffening as she turned back to him. “What can I get you, sir?” she asked, her voice polite and flat.

“You can start by telling me your name,” he said, leaning forward with a smirk. “And then maybe we’ll talk about what time you get off tonight.”

Her expression didn’t falter, but the faint flicker of annoyance in her eyes gave her away. “I’ll get you another drink,” she said, turning away again.

Miller laughed, the sound loud and grating. “You don’t know how lucky you are, do you? This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance, babe. Tyler Miller doesn’t waste his time on just anyone.”

The bartender’s hand froze for a split second before she grabbed a glass and began pouring. I watched her closely, saw the way her fingers gripped the bottle just a little too tightly, like she was trying to channel her frustration into something constructive instead of chucking it at his head.

I couldn’t blame her. Miller had a way of bringing out the worst in people.

That murderous urge was hitting me hard again. I couldn’t believe he was actually trying to cheat on Sloane. He deserved everything he had coming.

She slid the drink across the bar, her smile thin and forced. “Here you go.”

Miller took a long sip, never taking his eyes off her. “You don’t talk much, huh? That’s okay. I like the quiet ones.”

She turned away without responding, busying herself with the register. Miller’s grin faltered, and his tone shifted, taking on an edge. “You think you’re too good for me? Is that it?”

The bartender didn’t respond. Instead, she stepped back, busying herself with another customer. But Miller wasn’t one to take a hint. He reached for the bartender’s wrist, his grip too tight, and I saw the flicker of fear in her eyes before she yanked her arm back.

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