Page 159 of Can't Always Get What You Want

“Babineaux,” he taunts, grinning through his mouthguard. “Heard you were seeing Montagalo’s sister and she dumped your limp dick.”

I don’t even think.

I just drop my gloves.

His eyes widen for a half-second. Then he drops his, too.

The crowd erupts before the first punch is even thrown.

We collide mid-ice like a car crash, fists flying. My knuckles find his jaw, his glove clips my cheekbone. It’s sloppy and brutal and pointless—but it’s exactly what I need.

Because for thirty seconds, I’m not thinking.

It feels too fucking good.

Every punch is an unsaid word. Every hit is a kiss I won’t get back. Every grapple is me trying to hold onto something that’s already slipped away.

The refs pull us apart.

I’m breathing hard, blood gushing from my nose, heart hammering like a war drum in my chest.

The crowd’s on its feet—they live for this shit.

I skate to the penalty box, ignoring the cameras.

The dull roar.

I catch Gio’s eye from across the ice; he’s shaking his head slowly behind his cage as if he can’t believe I actually lost my cool.

So unlike me.

I drop onto the bench in the box, droplets dripping onto the front of my blue jersey, chest still heaving. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, trying to breathe through it—through everything.

The sting in my knuckles.

The dull pulse in my cheek.

The aching hollow in my chest that no helmet, no gloves, no full-body check will ever fix.

And then?—

Knock. Knock.

I glance up.

There’s a blur through the scratched plexiglass. Long hair down. Ballcap with an HB on it. A frown that matches my own. Eyes sharp with frustration and something that looks a whole hell-of-a-lot-like worry.

Nova.

She’s standing right outside the box, knocking.

“Let me in.”

My eyes drop to the metal security latch on the inside of the box. Back up at her.

She knocks again, harder this time. “Hey!”

The crowd noise fades into static.

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