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holky he’d tried to hurt me. He beat me with his stick and kicked me with his fucking skate. It was an attack, not a dirty play, and Chuck lost his mind. He didn’t fight Messer; he buried him. He beat him into the ice because it was personal. Not to Messer, maybe, but to Chuck.

That’s what undid me. No one had ever gone off like that for me. Chuck fought like my life was on the line, and… fuck, I guess he thought it was. Now I was a giant ball of feelings, horny as hell, and overwhelmed by the realization that someone thought I was worth going to war to protect. For the first time in my life, someone saw me get hurt, and instead of turning away, he fucking burned the world down.

Chuck was my best friend. My ROD friend. But this time, I couldn’t throw up a distraction and pretend what we had was some unusual, convenient arrangement. There was no question we had to talk about what was happening between us— had happened between us—but that could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I would give him the best orgasms of his life, one after another, until he couldn’t come anymore.

Chuck’s outburst may have turned me upside down, but it had been what the Warriors needed to break out of our Seattle-inspired funk. We’d gone into the third period down 2–1, but when the buzzer sounded at the end of the game, we’d turned that around. Warriors 3, Cohos 2.

I was one of the last to leave the ice, and by the time I arrived in the locker room, it was total chaos. Chuck sat in his stall with his hand buried in a bucket of ice, surrounded like a king in the middle of a mosh pit. The guys were packed in around him, climbing over each other to get close. I didn’t even bother trying to reach my stall, which was right next to his, because there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I’d get through.

Logan was up front, his eyes wide with adrenaline. “Damn, Dog. I’ve never seen anyone fight like that. Way to go.”

“Hell yes!” Riley, standing next to Logan, shouted. “Do you give boxing lessons, or was that a one-time demo?”

Abby muscled his way into the circle and scrubbed his knuckles across Chuck’s head like a proud older brother. “You’re even better than I thought. You play hockey like Russian.”

Harpy, who must have seen the whole thing on TV, pushed his way through the crowd. “You okay, man?” He nodded toward Chuck’s hand. “Can I see?”

Chuck pulled his hand out of the ice, and holy shit—it was swollen and red, with cuts across his knuckles, probably from Messer’s teeth.

“Looks worse than it feels,” Chuck said. “The trainer did an X-ray. Nothing’s broken.”

“That’s a goddamn miracle,” Packy said from behind me. “Let Holky through, boys. He needs to sit, and I’m sure he wants to talk to Dog.”

Heads turned in my direction. Chuck’s eyes found mine, and he gave me a small, uncertain smile.

Shit. Does he think I’m mad?

The guys parted to let me through, and I dropped into the seat beside Chuck, on the opposite side from Harpy. It took a second to shift into Holky mode and find something he’d say, not Nate. I rested my hand on Chuck’s knee. “Dog, like I’ve said before, you’re a fucking menace.” I grinned. “Thanks for what you did out there. Seriously, it means a lot.”

Our gazes locked, and I lost myself in his eyes. When they pulled him off Messer, he’d been a sight with his wild eyes and fists still clenched. He searched the ice like nothing would settle until he saw me standing upright. Now, the rage was gone, but something deeper lingered. Relief, for sure, but a glow that hit me low and hard. My throat tightened, and my vision blurred. I swallowed it all because I couldn’t say any of the things I needed to while we were here.

Chuck’s lips curled into a small, almost hesitant smile, and I answered with one of my own. My ROD friend, my linemate, my man. He was amazing.

The moment shattered when Criswell’s voice barked down the hall: “Madison! My office, now!”

Chuck blinked but kept his eyes on mine. “Don’t be a dick, okay? Wait for me.”

I snorted. “Jesus, Dog. That means I’ll have to hang around while they bandage your hand too.” I shook my head. “You’re high maintenance, but I guess I owe you, seeing how you threw down for me like I was your prom date.”

It was our usual banter, the kind we tossed around for the sake of the guys, but even I could hear how awkward it sounded.

Chuck stood. “Let me out, boys. Time to get yelled at. Hope he doesn’t ship my ass back to Syracuse.”

I smacked his butt as he walked by. “No worries. I’ll kick his ass if he tries.”

The door swung shut behind him, and I enjoyed the unusual silence until I realized no one was moving. The guys just stood there grinning. All of them.

Mad Dog

Criswell wasn’t alone. He’d left his office door open, and Hart—the offensive coach—was in there with him. I knocked, and Criswell motioned me in.

“Close the door,” he said, then gestured toward a chair. “Sit.”

He was perched on the edge of his desk, and Hart stood nearby with his arms folded. Neither of them said anything, and since I didn’t want to sit there bouncing my knee and wringing my hands, I looked around. Criswell’s real office was at the practice facility. This room was a place for him to conduct business at the arena, so there were only a few papers scattered across the top of his desk. Trophies gleamed on a set of shelves, and the rest of the room was taken up by a small conference table, a beige couch, and a matching chair.

“Madison!”

I snapped my head around to look at Criswell, who had me fixed in a squinty scowl. “I’ve seen rookies pull all kinds of shit. Sneaking out of hotels, getting so drunk after a game that they’re still disabled the next day, even bringing girls to practice. One took the GM’s car for the day, and I had to grovel to keep the front office from calling the police.”

“Yes, sir.” I hated how weak my voice sounded.

“But I have never seen a rookie be so goddamn reckless in the middle of a fucking game. I believe I understand why it set you off the way it did, but there is a thing called self-control, and most adults use it. We are not a team of thugs. We don’t play hockey that way. Do you realize that fight could’ve gone wrong in a hundred ways, each one worse than the last? You could have gotten the team sanctioned. Hell, you could have ended up in jail if you’d really hurt Messer. The only reason I don’t think you’ll face discipline from the league is because Messer made such a big show of skating away under his own steam and flipping off everybody in the arena.”

“Yes, sir.”

He scoffed and scrubbed the back of his neck. “I think you were goddamn lucky this time, but if you pull this kind of stunt again, you’ll be on the first train to the North Pole. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Show more respect for your teammates. And for the love of God, respect yourself enough to show you’re not a firecracker.”

I felt a little like I might pass out, but at least it didn’t sound like he was sending me back down. “I will, Coach. Thanks for understanding. It won’t happen again.”

“I hope not.” He paused, and when he went on, his voice was softer. “You’re one of the most talented young players I’ve seen in years. If you focus on playing hockey, you should be able to retire as a Warrior. I can even imagine you in the Hall of Fame someday if you keep your nose clean and have some good luck. Don’t blow this, son. Channel your anger and frustration into playing well. My first coach always said the best revenge is beating their asses, and by some crazy fluke, we did that tonight despite you.”

“Yes, Coach.” My mind was reeling. If Criswell thought I had a chance at things like that, I’d have to focus harder. He’d gone quiet, so I asked, “Is that all?”

Hart spoke for the first time. “The head coach can’t tell you everything that needs to be said, but I can. As unacceptable as what you did was—good for you. The Cohos think their shit doesn’t stink, and that bastard Messer is delusional enough to think he’s the toughest SOB in the league. The truth is, he’s not that good of a player. He’s not in good shape, he’s not greatness material, and he’s so fucking far from being a gentleman it makes me laugh to even think about it. He’s nothing but a schoolyard bully all grown up.”

Criswell cleared his throat. “Agreed.”

Hart twitched his lips into—I don’t know—at least not a frown. “You’d better listen to what Coach Criswell said, but since you jumped into it tonight, let me say it was a good job, well done. You beat the shit out of Messer without actually hurting him too badly, and you left him lying on the ice humiliated. Part of being a dominant player is following through, but so is showing restraint.”

“I understand, Coach. It won’t happen again, but thank you.”

“That’s all,” Criswell said. “Go home and take care of your hand.”

I got up and headed for the door, but before I could open it, Criswell called my name. “If anybody asks, this meeting was pure hell from beginning to end, and you’ll be lucky if I don’t send you to play for the Rotten-Ass Bombers tomorrow. Understood?”

I couldn’t hold back a grin. “Absolutely. It’ll keep me up all night worrying about it.”