Page 10 of Ice Cold, Red Hot
Shepherd barely reacted, just a tap of his stick against the ice, a brief, unreadable glance toward his teammate. No celebration, no over-the-top moment—just calm, steady focus as he circled back toward the bench.
Like it was just another play. Like it wasn’t completely breathtaking to watch. What must it have been like to live it? To know you were solely responsible for the insanity of the crowd shrieking all around us.
I exhaled slowly, my pulse still hammering, my fingers curled tight into my lap.
Nat bumped my arm, grinning. “They’re pretty focused now, huh?”
I swallowed.
Watching him like this—seeing him in his world, where he was untouchable, undeniable, unstoppable—It was doing something dangerous to me.
The game went on that way, with Shepherd at the center of it all any time he was on the ice.
And then, in the last period, I watched in horror as one of the other team’s players barreled toward one of our guys, bending down low and aiming with his shoulder. He slammed into him, catching our guy in the gut and throwing him hard into the boards with a resounding crash. I knew nothing about the game, but even I knew that was a dirty hit.
“What the hell?” I asked.
Nat sat at my side, tense. “That was Griff.” I glanced at her to find worry etched into every feature of her face. Interesting.
I didn’t have time to say anything else, because suddenly, the whole team was flying toward Griff, lying on the ice. Shepherd was at the front of the rush, and before I understood his intentions, he threw off his gloves, dodged the ref, and yanked the jersey of the guy who’d slammed Griff so they were facing each other.
Shepherd’s fist slammed into the guy’s helmet with a sickening thud, knuckles colliding with hard plastic instead of skin. The effort barely fazed him—just pissed him off more, even though Shepherd’s hand must’ve been demolished.
But he wasn’t done. With one hand, he fisted the guy’s jersey, yanking him forward. With the other, he ripped athis opponent’s helmet, tearing it loose before throwing it aside like it offended him.
And then, he reached up and pulled off his own.
A hush rippled through the crowd. I didn’t know much about hockey fights, but that felt important. Like a declaration. Like a warning.
Shepherd barely took a second to steady himself before swinging again.
This time, nothing was in the way. His bare fist cracked against the guy’s cheek, snapping his head to the side.
The crowd erupted. The guy stumbled, shaking his head, and then—he swung back.
I gasped as Shepherd’s head jerked with the impact, but he didn’t even flinch. He just licked at the corner of his mouth like he tasted blood—like he liked it.
And then, he came back harder. It wasn’t just fists flying—it was rage. Precision. A raw, violent kind of beauty.
And I couldn’t look away.
The refs stormed in, grabbing at Shepherd, wrestling him back, trying to pull him off. He fought against them, still trying to get one last hit in. His chest was heaving, fists still clenched, knuckles already split open.
And then, his eyes lifted. Straight to me.
My pulse stuttered.
His face was flushed, wild, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. But there was something dark in his gaze. Something possessive.
Something that made my stomach twist in a way I didn’t want to analyze.
Beside me, Nat let out a breathless laugh. “Yeah. That’swhy they call hockey fights ‘five minutes for fighting and a lifetime of foreplay.’”
I couldn’t even respond.
Because Shepherd Renshaw was still looking at me.
And I wasn’t sure if he’d won the fight… or if I had just lost something to him I’d never get back.
