Page 12 of Penalty Kiss
I’m overreacting. Maybe it’s perfectly innocent. Maybe I've been hit in the head so many times I'm seeing predators where there are just late-night joggers and overzealous personal trainers.
I run my hand through my hair. Five minutes in Cedar Falls and I might already be the guy who tackles innocent businessmen in alleys. My PR team is going to love this.
But my gut doesn't give a damn what my brain thinks. Every protective cell in my body fires at once.
I pull over hard, engine cut, closing the door behind me. Key still in the ignition, because if someone jacks my ride in Cedar Falls, they'll probably return it with a full tank and homemade cookies in the glove compartment.
Adrenaline floods my system, making my head pound, vision stutter for a second. Shit. This is exactly what the docs said not to do. But I can't walk away from this—the first clean rush I’ve felt since Game Six. This is what I was built for. Not managing symptoms. Not overthinking plays. Just stepping between a threat and the innocent.
The jogger—gorgeous even from behind, dark hair flying, stride smooth as a breakaway—cuts down an alley. The shadow follows.
Then I hear it: a sharp grunt, a scuffle, a deep, ugly groan.
Every civilized thought evacuates my skull. My legs remember how to be fast—even if my head’s still deciding which way is up—and I break into a run.
I round the corner and—Not what I expected.
The guy is doubled over, clutching his family jewels like she just turned him into a cautionary tale.
But the suit-wearing piece of garbage soon straightens up and shoves her against the wall.
She fights back—I'll give her that. Petite but fierce, all curves and determination. She's got some kind of defensive training. Low center, light feet, hands up while trying to break his grip and create distance.
But he's bigger, and physics is a bitch when you're outweighed by sixty pounds.
Not on my watch.
"Get your hands off her."
My voice comes out low, carrying the kind of promise that's ended more than a few fights before they started.
He spins around, and in the dim alley light, I get my first good look at him. Mid-forties. Expensive threads. Polished shoes. If Italian mafia has a look, he’s the poster child.
He sizes me up—six-four of Korean-Danish muscle with a face that's been in too many hockey fights to count. His grip on the woman loosens as he recalculates the odds.
"This doesn't concern you," he says, but there's already defeat in his voice. He's looking for an exit.
"Funny thing about me," I say, taking another step forward, "I make everything my concern when assholes are hurting women."
The mathematical certainty of losing a fight with me settles over his features. Smart man.
"This is a private matter," he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as artificial. “Family business.”
"Funny," I say, taking another step. "She doesn't look like she agrees."
The woman—her chest rising and falling rapidly—looks more like a celebrity in an adventure movie. Her eyes aren't scared. They're pissed. And when she looks at me, there’s a hint of recognition.
"She's my cousin," the suit says, like that explains why he was manhandling her in an alley at night. "We're having a disagreement."
"And I'm the tooth fairy," I reply as I move closer.
He backs away and adjust his jacket, all smooth movements and predatory calm.
He looks at her with the kind of possessive hunger that makes my skin crawl.
"This isn’t over. You can't run forever, Taralyn. He'll find you. He always does."
Taralyn.Even the name sounds expensive, like champagne and private jets.
