Page 19 of For Pucking Real (The Seattle Vipers #4)

FOURTEEN

TOBIAS

Now

I didn't mean to kiss her. Well, it definitely wasn't my intention.

Hell, I didn't even plan on staying that long.

I was just trying to be helpful, bring dinner, hold Chloe, maybe make Lia laugh while giving her a moment's peace.

The simple domesticity of the moment had caught me off guard.

Lia dancing around her kitchen with Chloe strapped to her chest, singing off-key to some Amy Winehouse song, her hair piled messily on top of her head.

Instead, I kissed Lia. Right there in her kitchen.

While she had Chloe strapped to her chest and avocado smeared across her cheek from the guacamole I'd offered to feed her.

It wasn't premeditated. It wasn't calculated.

It was pure instinct. The playfulness in the moment had me wanting things I shouldn't.

. .but the way she looked at me, eyes wide with surprise before they softened, her lips parting slightly, I couldn't help myself.

She tasted like mint and something sweet, and for that brief moment, everything felt right.

I didn't know Devan was going to walk through the door. Didn't hear his key in the lock or his footsteps on the hardwood.

He did, and I saw it, the betrayal, the hurt, the restraint in every tense line of his body.

His shoulders squared, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.

The part that eats at me the most though?

He didn't even say anything. He just asked for his daughter, held her against his broad chest with those gentle hands I used to know so well, and left.

His eyes never met mine again, like I'd become something he couldn't bear to look at.

No screaming. No accusations. Just quiet devastation that somehow cut deeper than any rage could have.

The locker room fills with pre-game chatter as guys filter in, equipment bags dropping, tape ripping, the familiar cacophony that usually centers me before a game.

I focus on taping my stick, head down, pretending I don't feel the temperature drop when Devan walks in.

He moves past me like I'm invisible, choosing a spot at the far end where he never sits, crowding in next to Tor rather than taking his usual place.

The message couldn't be clearer if he'd spray-painted it on the wall.

There's no hype music blasting from one of his carefully curated playlists, no ridiculous pre-game dance moves or exaggerated motivational speeches that normally have everyone in stitches.

The signature Devan Scott energy is conspicuously absent, leaving a hollow silence that feels wrong, unnatural.

The entire team keeps throwing confused glances his way, shoulders tense, routines disrupted, and they have absolutely no fucking idea that I'm the reason their beloved hype-man has gone silent.

That I'm the one who extinguished that light.

Hockey players are superstitious as fuck, worse than theatre people or sailors.

I've just taken a sledgehammer to the ritual that's carried this team through their best winning streak in years.

Guys are missing their fist bumps, their special handshakes, the ridiculous chants Devan always leads.

I can see Ridley checking his phone repeatedly, probably texting his sister to figure out what's wrong.

Christ, if we lose this game because the team's rhythm is thrown, I'll be the villain twice over, and I won't even be able to defend myself.

Coach Lennox gives us the rundown, his eyes lingering on me a second longer than usual, brows furrowing slightly. Great. Even he can feel it, the tension crackling between us like static electricity before a storm.

"Let's fucking go, boys," Tor calls out, captain's voice steady and sure, clapping his hands together as we rise.

Devan doesn't look at me once during warm-ups. Not a glance. Not even when we accidentally cross paths during line rushes. When we hit the ice for the opening faceoff, I might as well be a ghost in a Vipers jersey, present but unseen, making no impact on his world.

First period. Second period. The game moves around us, and it's like we're playing separate sports on the same ice.

Twice I'm wide open, calling for the puck, stick raised.

Twice Devan looks right past me, forcing passes to covered teammates instead, ignoring the easiest play.

The second time ends in a turnover, and Coach's face turns a dangerous shade of red as he barks something from the bench I can't quite hear over the crowd.

He's already swapping out goalies each period, the man is stressed enough with Derrick last up in the crease.

By the third period, we're up by two, but it's sloppy hockey. Disjointed. Thank God for Derrick, he isn't letting anything get past him. On my next shift, I find open ice along the boards, tape slapping the ice in the universal signal. I'm open. I'm right here. See me, damn it.

Devan has the puck, controls it with that smooth confidence that's always been his trademark.

Sees me standing alone, a clear lane between us.

Our eyes meet for a split second, the first acknowledgment of my existence all night and then he deliberately turns and fires it cross-ice into traffic.

It's intercepted, and the other team breaks away, a three-on-two that has Derrick scrambling in net.

Something snaps inside me, a rubber band pulled too tight finally giving way. When play stops, I skate directly to him at the bench, blood pounding in my ears.

"What the hell is your problem?" I'm too close, invading his space, not caring who sees or hears. "You gonna ignore me for the rest of the season? Throw away games because you can't look at me?"

His eyes flick up, cold as center ice in December, jaw set in that stubborn line I remember too well from our college days. "Back off, Groves."

"No. You don't get to bottle this up like you always do. Eight years of silence, and now this? You're better than this petty bullshit."

Teammates shift uncomfortably on the bench, some pretending not to listen, others openly staring.

Devan stands, pushing into my space, his voice low but venomous.

"You think you can just walk in and take my family?

Kiss Lia in her kitchen? Play house with my daughter?

" he says as we tumble over the boards for the remainder of the period, our bodies crashing onto the ice like fallen soldiers, the tension between us so thick it could suffocate the entire arena.

Coach Lennox bellows something unintelligible from behind us, his frustration palpable even through the deafening roar of the crowd.

I can feel Devan's presence just a few feet away, his anger radiating off him in waves that seem to distort the very air around us.

The rest of our teammates give us a wide berth, nobody wanting to get caught in the crossfire of whatever's brewing between us.

A storm eight years in the making, finally breaking over the LA ice.

I try not act as if his words don't hit like a punch to the throat.

Family . It shouldn't hurt this much, but it does, a sharp, twisting pain beneath my ribs.

"If they're yours, then where were you last night?

Where were you when Chloe was crying and Lia needed help?

If they're yours, why aren't you there?" The words escape my lips as we set up for another puck drop.

I should regret every word, but I can't stop them, this is eight years of pain compressed into seven words.

His face contorts, grief and rage battling for dominance in his expression.

The puck drops, play commences and in the next moment is a blur, gloves dropping, sticks clattering against the boards.

His fist connects with my jaw with a sickening crack, and instinct takes over.

I tackle him to the ice. We're rolling, punching, grappling on the pristine white surface now stained with droplets of crimson.

It's not a hockey fight with its unspoken rules and codes, it's raw emotion spilling out in front of twenty thousand people.

Blood in my mouth, copper and salt. He grunts as my fist connects with his ribs.

The crowd roars, half-horrified, half-enthralled by the spectacle. Teammates are yelling, trying to separate us. I hear the announcer's shocked voice echo through the arena: "And now Groves and Scott are going at it! Teammates! This is unprecedented, the Vipers are imploding on the ice!"

Strong arms wrap around my chest, dragging me backward. Tor's voice in my ear, urgent and commanding: "Enough! That's enough! Stop it, both of you!"

Ridley has Devan, who's still lunging against the restraint, blood trickling from his nose, eyes wild with an emotion I can't name. The refs swarm, whistles shrieking. We're both escorted off the ice like criminals, down the tunnel, the crowd a distant thunder behind us.

Silence follows us to separate corners of the locker room.

My hands shake as I peel off my gear, adrenaline still coursing through my system.

The game continues without us, the team somehow holding onto the lead.

The final buzzer sounds, a win for the Vipers.

Derrick's first time back on ice since his accident, and we've turned it into a PR nightmare that will dominate every sports channel tomorrow.

The team filters in, their celebration muted. No one looks at either of us. Even Derrick's smile is subdued as Sebastian embraces him, whispering something in his ear. His moment stolen by whatever this is between Devan and me.

"Groves. Scott. My office. Now." Coach Lennox doesn't wait for a response, just turns and strides down the hall, knowing we will follow.

Inside his office, we stand like schoolboys awaiting punishment. Coach paces, jaw working before he speaks, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.

"You two want to explain what the hell that was?" His voice is dangerously controlled, the calm before the storm.

Neither of us speaks. What could we say? That we're fighting over a woman? Over a past neither of us has ever acknowledged to anyone else?

"I've got media asking if there's a locker room problem. I've got management wondering if they made a mistake bringing you in, Groves." He points at me, eyes cold and assessing. "Whatever this is between you two, it ends now. You hear me? You sort it out, or this team will sort you out."

He turns to me, finger jabbing the air inches from my face. "One more stunt like that, and you'll find yourself traded faster than you can pack your bags. You want to be here? Prove it. On the ice. As a teammate."

My stomach drops, a hollow feeling spreading through my chest. Another trade. Another city. Another failure. The cycle continuing, just when I thought I'd found somewhere to belong.

"Are we clear?" Coach asks, gaze moving between us.

"Yes, sir," we mutter in unison, the first thing we've agreed on all night.

Back in the locker room, the guys are subdued, conversations hushed, glances darting between Devan and me like they're watching for the next explosion. Tor approaches me cautiously, still in his game shorts, captain's C gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

"What's going on?" His voice is low, concerned, not accusatory. "Devan doesn't fight. Not like that. Not with teammates. Ever."

I shake my head, unable to explain the years between us, the kiss that broke whatever fragile peace we might have had, the history that stretches back to dorm rooms and secret touches and promises neither of us kept.

"Fix it," Tor says simply. Captain's orders. Then he walks away to check on Devan, who's sitting silently in his stall, staring at nothing.

I sit alone, ice pack on my jaw, watching the team orbit around me at a safe distance. The new guy. The troublemaker. The outsider who's upset their family's balance.

What terrifies me most wasn't Devan's anger, it was the hurt beneath it. The look in his eyes wasn't just rage. It was betrayal. Heartbreak. The same pain I've carried for eight years, since he walked away without explanation.

I still love him. The realization hits me with stunning clarity. After everything, after all this time, some part of me still loves him. Now I'm falling for Lia too, with her fierce independence and soft heart.

I stare at my battered knuckles, the skin split and beginning to bruise, wondering how I'll ever fix what I've broken. If I even can. Or if I've just lost my last chance at belonging, in this city, on this team, with the two people who've somehow become the center of my world.