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ALEXEI

Blood pumps in my ears that evening as Walker and I hit the ice for another shift.

Within seconds, Walker steals the puck, moving it to the other end of the ice, passing to the forwards. He’s fast like lightning, sharp like a knife. My blood hums and I hold my breath. Here we go. Here we fucking go.

The puck comes to Walker. He skates back, giving himself space. A player barrels forward but in a split second, Walker goes right, and the player falls face-first onto the ice, sliding. The rookie’s so agile, he makes everyone else look like elephants.

Walker snaps the puck at the lower corner of the net—it goes in. It’s an away game so there’s no roar from the crowd, but the few Vancouver fans cheer as we celebrate the goal.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” I say to Walker.

“Like flying.” He grins before skating off to bump gloves with the players on the bench.

The next time we’re on the ice, though, the rookie’s about to intercept a play when the other team’s defenseman cross-checks him.

Protective fury ignites in my chest as the ref blows the whistle. It’s a two-minute penalty.

Moments later, it happens again. The rookie gets slammed into the boards. He bounces like a rag doll, and a wave of nausea hits me. Even the other team’s fans behind the glass wince.

“You okay?” I ask him after, and he nods.

“I’m fine. Let’s play.”

We all look to the ref.

No penalty. Blood pounds in my ears.

“They’re trying to take the rookie out,” Owens mutters to us.

This happens sometimes, usually to Miller. They see what he can do, and they want him injured so he can’t play.

“You good?” Miller asks me, a question in his eyes.

I know what I need to do. I hate this part, but I can’t sit around and watch the rookie get the shit beat out of him.

Protective rage rattles through me. Not on my watch. Not one of my guys.

My gaze swings to the hallway behind the bench, where Georgia sits, watching the game and eating dinner. Hesitation twists in my gut, warring with my need to protect the rookie. She’s not going to like this.

I nod at Miller. “I’m good. Let’s do it.”

While we line up for a face-off, I find the guy who hit Walker, and I smile at him. It’s not my Georgia smile. It’s my I’m about to fuck you up smile. Cold, calculating, and cruel. I think about the way Walker rag-dolled against the boards, and adrenaline hits my bloodstream.

Now I wait for my opportunity.

The puck drops, the game restarts, but before the next whistle blows, I’m hit from the side, slammed into the boards, and pain sears through my shoulder and face.