“Who?” I ask, trying to track his line of vision, but the players are moving too quickly.
“Collin fucking Shively,” he sneers. “The goddamn colon hurt my sister—”
I don’t even hear the rest of what he says because the pieces suddenly click into place. Collin Shively is Juliette’s ex. The one who made her feel stupid. The one who put his hands on her.
The one I’m about to fucking kill.
I’m on the ice in an instant, ignoring the shouts from my coaches and teammates because I’m still supposed to be on the bench. My body is a bullet train, headed straight for Shively as my skates rake hard across the ice.
“Hey, what the fuck?” the prick asks as I barrel into him and take him to the ground.
I haven’t felt this kind of anger since I was ten and saw my dad hurting my mom, the night I hit him with a pot. But I don’t need a weapon now. I’m a grown-ass man, and Iamthe weapon.
Ripping off his helmet, I pummel his face. Over and over. I feel hands tugging at me, but I’m relentless. All I can think of is my beautiful, kind-hearted Juliette cowering on the floor, holding her dislocated shoulder.
That’s what Collin Shively, the abusive coward, deserves too, so I flip him over and twist his arm up behind his back. But before I get the satisfaction of hearing the sound of his shoulder popping out of its socket, I’m suddenly yanked away.
It takes three of my teammates, but I’m being carried kicking and screaming away from the bloody man on the ice. “Youfucking twat muffin,” I yell, using Juliette’s name for him. “I’m not done with you yet, motherfucker.”
I’m ejected from the game, but I don’t give a single shit about that. My blood is still boiling inside my veins. Coach shoves me in the chest.
“Out of my sight, Swain. I’ll deal with you later. Locker room. Now,” he barks before turning to Baylor. “Ward, go with him and see if you can’t do something with his crazy ass. I’ve got to deal with…” He waves a frustrated hand toward the rink. “All this shit.”
Gibby is locked up with Boston’s right winger, and they’re throwing punches left and right. The rest of both teams are on the ice, yelling curses and bowing up to one another.
Five minutes later, Baylor and I are alone in the locker room. He pushes me roughly onto one of the wide wooden benches where we usually sit to put on our skates and tape our equipment. The look of fury on his face matches my own, and he levels me with a glare that keeps me seated, despite my urge to go finish the job.
He paces back and forth in front of me about twenty times, hands on hips and eyes averted from mine. I can see the wheels turning in his brain, so I remain silent.
Finally turning toward me, his voice is deceptively low. “Why did you call him a twat muffin?”
I’m confused. Out of everything that just happened, he’s worried that I called Shively a…
Wait. Fuck. That’s what Juliette calls Collin. And there’s no way I could know that unless she told me. And why would she tell me? Baylor is apparently asking himself that same question.
There’s no denying it. He knows. So I remain silent.
He walks closer, hovering over me as his fists clench at his sides. I brace myself for the blow, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he asks, “Are you fucking my sister?”
I don’t like the question. Do I fuck her? Yes. Do I talk dirty to her and tell her I’m going to fuck her until she screams? Also yes. But the wayBaylor says it, like it’s some dirty, horrible thing, pisses me right the fuck off.
“I’m in arelationshipwith Juliette,” I clarify, my voice hard as stone.
“A relationship?” he yells, the sound reverberating off the dark-blue lockers. Baylor paces away, kicking a hamper and sending dirty towels flying all over the place before whirling back. “Why?”
“Because I love her,” I say simply.
He gapes at me incredulously. “How can you love her? You’ve known each other for about five goddamn minutes.”
“I actually met her on vacation early this past summer. I didn’t know who she was then.”
Baylor’s jaw clenches. “So you thought you’d have a little fun and get a sweet piece of—”
He’s cut off when I jump to my feet and push him back against the lockers. Not hard enough to reinjure his head because as mad as I am right now, I’m not that much of an asshole.
Placing my forearm against his throat, I snarl. “I suggest you don’t finish that sentence, Baylor Ward. Not about the woman I love.”
Something passes through his eyes—respect maybe?—before he places his hands on my chest and pushes me back a few steps. It’s a shove but not a particularly hard one, merely giving us a little space to breathe.
