Page 49 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

“If you get lost out there, ref, just follow the sound of everyone booing,” Ari growled as he made it to me. There were a few whistles, but I couldn’t muster past the pain to see what was happening to Tyler.

Ari helped pull me up, and then I limped my way to the bench, my breath coming in ragged gasps as the trainer worked on getting me patched up.

“You’re out for now,” the trainer said, shaking his head. “I’ll see how it looks after this period.”

I cursed under my breath, slamming my hand on the boards in frustration. This was Game Three. I had fucking plans.

And if I couldn’t fucking perform for Sloane later…Miller was going to be a dead man.

I glanced over to where Sloane was sitting and caught just a glimpse of her concerned face as she peeked at me before she quickly whipped her head around the moment she saw me looking.

If that wasn’t a sign she was about to be in love with me—I didn’t know what was.

Miller chose that moment to skate by with that stupid grin on his face, like he’d just won something. It made my blood boil, but there wasn’t much I could do except sit there, seething, as the game went on without me.

“You okay, Rookie?” Lincoln asked as he skated by the bench.

I nodded glumly, trying to look tough despite the fact that it felt like Tyler Fucking Miller had tried to remove my kneecap.

Lincoln nodded, but there was a scary energy about him that made me glad for the millionth time he was on my team. I watched from the bench as he zeroed in on Miller, his eyes locked on him like a predator about to strike. And when he did, it wasn’t subtle. Lincoln came at Miller full force, driving him into the glass right by our bench, so hard that the boards rattled, the entire arena going silent for a moment.

Miller’s body crumpled against the boards, his stick clattering to the ice, and I could see the pain etched on his face as Lincoln held him there for a beat longer than necessary. The refs were already blowing their whistles, but Lincoln leaned in close, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t touch my rookie again.”

Miller didn’t even respond, his body limp as the trainers came to haul him off the ice. He wasn’t going to be playing what was hopefully his last game after all.

It was incredibly satisfying.

I avoided Ari’s eyes when he skated by. “Simppppp,” he singsonged, and I scoffed, because Walker was probably over there nutting in his pants right now at the display Lincoln had just put on. Why wasn’thegetting crap?

But also…yes, I was possibly Lincoln’s simp, as well.

We’d talk about that at another time.

Lincoln got sent straight to the penalty box after smashing Miller into the glass. I watched him skate off, his face hard as stone, not a single ounce of regret in his eyes. He wasn’t getting tossed from the game, though—probably because even the refs knew Tyler had it coming. A slash to the kneecap wasn’t exactly something they were going to let slide.

Lincoln dropped onto the bench in the box, glaring out at the ice like a caged animal. I could still feel the throbbing in my knee, the ache spreading through my leg, but seeing Miller get taken off the ice made it sting a little less.

When the penalty clock finally started ticking down, Lincoln looked over at me from the box, a small nod in my direction. No words, but I understood. He’d handled it.

And when I could get back in the game, I’d handle business too.

* * *

I couldn’t play for the rest of the game thanks to my swollen knee, but the good news was the team doc didn’t think I’d be out for Game Four.

Even though we lost…there was a small amount of solace after the game.

Miller’s drug test had come back positive, and NHL officials had swooped in. The arena was buzzing with the news—Tyler Miller had been hit with a twenty-game suspension, without pay, for performance-enhancing drugs.

I was now standing at Sloane’s hotel room door, holding a bouquet of flowers, my knee wrapped, and hoping that the news about Miller would soften thecomplicatedfeelings she might be having.

Sloane and I startednow.

CHAPTER12

SLOANE

Aknock on the door sounded, and I smoothed my hair and glanced in the mirror one more time, reapplying my red lipstick. The color was the one thing Everett let me choose about my appearance. It was my version of battle armor.

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