Page 131 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show

I buried myself in hockey.

And I’m not going to fucking lose a game now. I’m going to win. Whatever it takes. I center myself, and steel enters my veins.

Their forward tries to skate past me but I slam him into the boards, the noise way more satisfying than it should be.

The whistle blows again. Two minutes for interference.

I head for the penalty box, ignoring the confused looks of Dmitri and Noah.

I never go to the penalty box. That’s not my style. Axel and Dmitri do, sure...But not me.

But it makes sense I’m here now. I ruined everything for Sebastian. I deserve to be in the penalty box. I deserve everyone to know just how badly I fucked-up.

My legs bounce and I peer at the ice through the thick plastic glass, watching my teammates skate, a blur of blue and white. I should be with them.

Back on the ice, I intercept a pass meant for Montreal. I skate toward the net, ignoring Dmitri who is ready for my pass. I prefer to barrel though the Montreal defensemen. One of them tries to knock me down, but I muscle past him, ignoring the powder snow spraying around us.

The goalie drops, and I move at once. I fire the puck high above his glove, putting everything into the shot. It hits the back of the goal with a satisfying stretch.

The crowd cheers and claps, but the sound doesn’t remove the ache in my chest.

“Good job,” Dmitri says, but his look is bemused. He’s used to me working with him. I get the assist, he gets the goal and the glory, just how he likes it.

I’m pretty sure I’m still glowering as I skate back to the bench with the rest of my line. My teammates reach out their hands to cheer me, but their eyes seem equally bewildered.

The intermission doesn’t calm me. Anger bubbles through me. I want to be on the ice, to feel my blades slice through the Zambonied surface.

Finally, we’re back. Montreal’s center threads a pass through Noah’s legs to their wing. I leave my position to chase him. God, I hate his mustache.

I catch the guy, slamming him into the boards. The puck wiggles free. I snag it with my streak, then down the ice on a breakaway. Their defensemen can’t catch me. I fake right, go left, and roof the puck over the goalie’s shoulder.

Two-nothing Blizzards.

That’s when it happens. Play resumes, and I see Noah reaching for a loose puck along the boards. Montreal’s biggest defenseman lines him up, drives his shoulder right into back. Noah goes face-first into the glass.

The whistle blows but I’m already dropping my gloves, throwing my stick aside. The defenseman turns just as my first punch connects with his jaw. We’re grabbing each other’s jerseys, trading blows.

“Luke!” Noah shouts. “He’s not worth it.”

I don’t listen. The linesmen jump in to separate us.

“Five minutes each for fighting,” the ref announces.

I frown. He’s talking way more to me today than I appreciate. Normally, refs are silent puck droppers, skating out of my way. I don’t like all this conversation.

I sit in the penalty box and wipe blood from my lip.

My gaze darts around the arena.

My disappointed coach.

My confused teammates.

The interested press.

Then I see him.Sebastian.In the press box. Our eyes meet across the arena and everything stops—the throbbing in my lip, the roar of the crowd, even my heartbeat.

God, he is here.