Page 21 of Dirty Pucking Player

He let it go.

At least, for the time being. The problem with guys like Bash is you never know when the shit is going to hit the fan. It’s the kind of hit that demands some sort of reaction, and with Bash, that means gloves-off.

Berglund skates past him, following the puck, now in Whale possession, back toward the neutral zone. Bash jerks his head toward him as if Berglund said something to him, but from this far away, there’s no way to know what was said.

More than ten feet separate us, but the burning rage in Bash’s eyes flashes hot enough that it glows enough for me to see even from the bench. He instantly morphs from the “new and improved” Sebastian Fury he’s been all night into the one who played in the last game, the one who got traded because he became a liability.

The one who is dangerous.

Oh shit.

* * *

BASH

The game has been going so damn well. We’re playing great, and if it weren’t for a few perfectly placed shots that even a stellar performance by our goalie, Pierre, couldn’t stop, we would be winning four to zero instead of four to two.

It’s the kind of game we needed, not only to help us gain some points on the Stingrays but also to solidify my place on this team. Mac and I have easily fallen back into our roles, and despite our differences, Lebedev has played well with us when he’s rotated in.

I thought there would for sure be some animosity, maybe some selfish play on his part, but he’s smarter than I gave him credit for. He knows if he pulls any of that bullshit, Greer will call him out and bench him, just like she threatened to do with me.

A threat that hasn’t had to come into play tonight. Time’s almost up, and somehow, I managed to stay out of the penalty box today.

Miracle of all miracles…

Though not because of Coach’s warning the other day. Not because I became a fucking pussy overnight. It’s just been a game that hasn’t needed that kind of play.

And until Berglund slammed me against the boards a few seconds ago, I thought it was going to stay that way. It was a dirty hit—I know because I make the same move all the time. A cross-check from behind when the refs aren’t watching.

Any other night, I might have retaliated immediately, but when Greer’s eyes connected with mine, it was like a soothing balm spread over an open wound oozing anger.

Let it go, Bash.

I return my focus to the puck and shift to the right to try to get in on the play.

“I slammed you into those boards almost as hard as I slammed your coach last night.” Berglund’s taunting words come from my left.

I jerk my head around just as he skates past me with a lecherous grin. He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and it’s like a bomb detonates inside me.

White-hot rage surges through my veins, and any control I had this entire game disintegrates in a millisecond.

“What the fuck did you just say, asshole?” I charge after him and slam him to the glass with my forearm against his throat.

The game continues on behind us, both of us oblivious to anything other than what’s happening in our few square feet of the ice.

He twists his head and laughs. “Your coach was so damn tight. I slammed her all fucking night long.”

I drop my gloves in the flash of an eye. My fist whips out and hits his jaw so fast that he never sees it coming. I barely even realize I’m doing it.

The force of my strike drops him to the ice. His head snaps back, and his helmet flies off. It might be enough to stop someone else from taking this any further, but I’m not someone else. And what I just did to him is nowhere near what he deserves for that fucking comment.

He could be dead for all I care.

I don’t give a shit.

No one. Fucking no one talks about Greer like that.

This motherfucking prick!

---