Page 140 of The Wingman

Player targeting happens sometimes when a team wants to take the other team’s star out. This isn’t about me scoring goals, though.

This is personal.

“What the fuck are you doing?” one of Calgary’s players asks Kit. At their bench, the coach shakes his head, frowning.

“Say the word,” Volkov mutters, glaring at Kit, features tight with tension.

Volkov’s the Storm’s enforcer—an unofficial term given to the guy who restores balance on the team and protects players the other team is going after.

This isn’t his battle to fight, though. It’s mine.

“Are we going to put this fucking clown in his place or what?” Miller asks, skating over.

My gaze lifts to the box where I know Darcy and the other analysts are watching the game.

Fighting’s common in hockey. It’s a way to restore balance in the game when a team plays dirty or refs aren’t calling penalties. My muscles tense with fury. The energy crackles; I want to end this.

It would upset her, though.

I look back to Kit, who’s lost her because of his own stupidity.

I have everything, and he has nothing. I pity him. He’s hurt and angry and confused, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

“Ignore him. The ref will call a penalty eventually.”

We face off again, and a minute later, as I’m scrambling for the puck, I’m slammed face-first into the boards.

Fire sears my lip. Rage vibrates through my chest, growing and gathering. I take a deep breath as I get to my feet, blood dripping from my face onto the ice. Noise erupts around me—the fans pounding their fists on the glass in outrage, my teammates shouting protests, the whistle blowing.

The arena’s going wild as I meet Kit’s gaze. He’s surrounded by Vancouver players, refs, and linesmen, but his attention is focused on me.

His eyes flash; this isn’t the guy I grew up with, my best friend from university. This is someone else.

“You’re a fucking embarrassment,” I spit out.

“You think she’s not going to do the same thing to you?” His lip curls in an ugly sneer. “Why would she end up with you?”

With a linesman between them, Volkov tries to shove Kit. “Shut up.”

Tension simmers on the ice as the refs review the play on their screens. Players circle each other. Finally, the ref skates to center ice and the arena falls quiet as he clicks his mic on.

“Five-minute major for boarding.”

The arena cheers, and Kit sends me another dirty look over his shoulder as he’s escorted to the penalty box.

I try to summon empathy for the guy, but I’m not going to pretend I’m the same person I was a couple of months ago.

Darcy’s mine. He needs to get over that.

The game resumes, and we run a play Darcy and the other analysts recommended to Ward. Miller passes to me, I shoot the puck, and it hits the back of the net. Noise erupts in the arena, the goal horn bellows, and lights flash as Miller, Volkov, Walker, and our other forward surround me to celebrate.

“I love proving her right,” I yell to Volkov over the noise, grinning ear to ear.

My gaze meets Kit’s in the penalty box and his nostrils flare. I stand taller, straightening my shoulders, and level him with a challenging look.

I won, my eyes say.You lost and you’re done.

In a shot, he’s out of the box, charging at me. I hear the fans gasp. He still has forty seconds on the penalty clock.

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