Page 1 of Dirty Pucking Player

1

BASH

Blood splatters across the Plexiglass from Miller’s split lip, and I shove his face against it, keeping him pinned to the boards with my hips. It’s not my fault the fucker lost his helmet and opened himself up to an ass-kicking he deserves. After what he did to King on that last play, he needs a serious reminder never to touch our tendy.

The crowd roars, the sound reverberating through the arena at an almost deafening level. My ears ring, the noise only causing my blood to pump harder, my anger to rise more.

Miller twists and shoves back his body, trying to buck me off him. I swing, and my fist connects with the side of his head. He roars, pushes off the boards, and manages to get enough space between us to free himself from my hold.

Rage flares through my veins as he skates toward me, tugging off his gloves. Mine are long gone somewhere on the ice where I tossed them before I took him down.

The second he’s close enough, my strike lands on his face. The crack of his nose breaking doesn’t give me any pause. Not after the way he’s been pushing for a confrontation all night.

I swing again and hit his jaw this time. His head whips back, sending blood from his mouth and nose flying through the air and splattering across the ice.

He recovers a second later and responds with a shot to my jaw. Pain spreads through the side of my face.

Motherfucker!

That sharp bite of pain acts as gasoline on the already blazing inferno inside of me, and I unleash on him.

Shot after shot.

Blow after blow.

I rain my aggression down on him until he’s on his back on the ice, and I’m straddling him, my bare hands covered in his blood.

Someone grabs me from behind and tugs on my shoulder. It’s nothing but a fruitless attempt to pull me off and away from him.

They shouldn’t bother.

It’s futile.

When I’m in Bash mode, there’s no stopping me. And this douchebag has been asking for it all game. It was only a matter of time before it was going to come to blows. Every chance he got, he was taking cheap shots on one of us, and the fucking refs seem to be blind to it tonight. But you touch King, you dare lay a fucking finger on our goalie, and you will suffer the consequences.

I pull my arm back for another blow, but a set of hands grabs my wrist and a forearm wraps around my neck and jerks me backward. The familiar black and silver of our team’s jersey flashes in my peripheral vision—the only reason I don’t swing at them, too.

“Bash! Stop!” Larsson’s voice comes from directly behind me. He tightens his hold on my neck for emphasis. “It’s fucking over.”

Whoever was holding my arm releases it, and a ref skates between me and where Miller still lies on the ice, bloodied and whining like the fucking pussy he is.

He loves to dish it out but can’t take it without turning into a blubbering baby.

It’s part of the game, asshole. Grow the fuck up.

Larsson releases me, and I glance back at him. “The asshole fucking deserved it. He’s been up my ass all game, and he hit King.” Another cheap shot when the ref wasn’t looking, so he got away with it.

It was time someone taught him a fucking lesson.

Miller climbs to his feet, pressing a hand over the gush of blood from his nose. His dark, hard eyes find mine, and he sneers and skates right past the useless ref toward me.

Ready for a second round, dickwad? BRING IT!

I skate toward him, but strong arms pull me back, and his teammates grab him before we can reach each other. We both struggle against the holds, but neither team is letting us go.

“Bash, man, chill.”

“Lars”—I thrash but can’t manage to free myself—“let me go.”

---