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I could feel eyes on me, but I wasn’t in the mood. I forced myself to skate off, shooting at the net with all my pent-up rage.

“What the fuck, Rookie?” Walker snarled as I pegged him in the face mask. He hit the goalpost, the clang barely registering with me.

Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her, I chanted over and over.

I needed to focus. I would find her later. I wouldkeepher later.

Fuck, this was going to be a long game.

* * *

From the second the puck dropped, I was skating with a purpose that had nothing to do with the game plan.

Tyler Fucking Miller. Of all people, why did it have to behimwith her? I kept seeing it—the image of him leaning toward the glass, his lips forming a kiss. It dug into my mind like a knife, twisting with every shift, every glance in his direction. Fuck. If his blowing her a kiss affected me this much…what was I going to do when heactuallykissed her?

And what the fuck was wrong with me? Why was I having such a violent reaction? I didn’t even know the woman.

It must have been because she was saddled with the biggest douchebag on the planet. That’s what this was. I was just being a good citizen, concerned because she had such terrible taste.

I was a guy. When a girl looks like that, you’re going to get hard.

The fact that I’d gotten an erection in front of an arena full of spectators meant nothing. Or at least it only meant that my testosterone levels were doing well.

I refused to think about the fact that all these thoughts and excuses felt like the biggest lies I’d ever told.

The first time Miller had the puck, I didn’t think. I just acted. I hit him into the boards, harder than I should’ve. The crowd roared, and for a second, I felt immensely better…until he skated by the girl, placing his hand on the glass in front of her while she gave him an enthralled look.

I wanted to throw up.

I was faintly aware of the ref’s whistle, warning me, but I couldn’t find it in myself to care.

“What’s your problem, York?” Miller said with a grin after he turned his back to the glass.

I snapped, slamming into him again, this time even harder, driving him against the boards with enough force to make the glass rattle. His smug face smashed up against the hard surface.

“What the fuck was that for?” he spat, shoving me as he pried himself off the glass and turned toward me.

I grinned, and before I could answer, his gloves and helmet were off. His fist came flying, and I barely ducked in time. I straightened and threw a hard punch that connected with his jaw, sending him stumbling back. We were tangled up within seconds, fists flying, our bodies crashing back against the boards as the refs scrambled to break us up.

“Fuck you, York,” Miller spat, his teeth bloody as he tried to swing again. I grabbed his jersey and yanked him down, throwing another punch to his ribs.

Adrenaline was roaring in my ears as the refs finally pulled us apart, dragging me toward the penalty box as I tried to shake them off. I could still hear Miller chirping from the ice.

I slammed down on the bench, breathing hard, my fists clenched beside me. My knuckles were throbbing, but it was the good kind of pain.

Lincoln skated by and banged on the glass. “Get your fucking head on straight,” he roared, his eyes locked on me with a fury I hadn’t seen directed at me before. “We’re in the fucking Stanley Cup Finals, Rookie, and you’re playing like a fuckingidiot. What the hell is wrong with you?”

He shook his head and raced toward the puck as I gritted my teeth and hissed in frustration. Next door, Miller wiggled his fingers at me from his own penalty box.

Fucking asshole.

I shouldn’t have done it. I tried not to. But I couldn’t help but look over at her. She was sitting there serenely, with no idea that I was out here losing my mind over her.

It felt weird, that I could be feeling so crazy…and she didn’t even know I existed.

She was going to know that I existed soon enough, though…if I kept telling myself that, maybe it would come true.

Maybe.