Page 49 of The Wildest One

There was only one person who could stop this fight.

One person my boys would listen to.

That was me.

But I wanted nothing more than to get this anger out of my body. I wanted to hurt something. I wanted to shake the guilt that was fucking consuming me by connecting my fingers to flesh.

My hands tightened inside my gloves, and I took a quick glance toward the stands.

A place I’d looked at hundreds of times tonight.

Each time searching for her.

And each time, the last text I’d sent, replayed in my fucking head.

Come to Africa. I’ll pay for everything. I want to look at those stars with you.

I turned, refocusing on the ref. The second I took these gloves off, fists would go flying. Blood would be shed. Pictures of me would appear across every news channel and online. I could see the headlines now, calling me a sore loser.

I didn’t want more attention. I already knew this evening’s warm-up would be made into a meme and get blasted across social media. Eden kept me updated on shit like that even though I had told her not to.

This fight, since it would happen after the game, would be even worse.

And it would give Boston what they expected from us at this point. What would be even better was if we beat them in a shutout when they came to LA and played us in a couple of weeks.

Goddamn it, there were times I hated myself when I made decisions with my head.

“We’re out of here,” I told the boys. “Come on.” As I skated past the line, I pointed at Boston’s captain and roared, “You’re fucking lucky.”

He laughed at me. “I can’t wait to embarrass you in front of all your fans.”

I ground my teeth together. “Never going to happen, you cocksucker. You know we’re going to destroy you. And you know you’ll never be as good as me, and it fucking kills you.”

“Weston, you think tonight showed me that you’re any good? You’re a fucking joke. LA is wasting their money on you. If they haven’t already realized how bad you are, they will by the end of the season, and they’ll trade your ass.” The captain smirked. “Boston knows you don’t have any skills, so you won’t be coming here.”

It took everything in me to keep heading toward the exit. To swallow my anger. To not turn around, change my mind, and punch that disrespectful chump in the back of his head as he took a victory lap around the ice.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get even,” my right wing said as we got closer to the exit. “When they’re in LA, they won’t know what hit them.”

“Fuck them,” I replied. “I can’t fucking stand that team.”

The door to the rink opened, and I stepped onto the concrete, making my way into the tunnel that led toward the locker room.

“What the hell happened to you?” a man voiced from above.

Several fans were hanging over the railing that looked into the tunnel. The man had to be one of them.

“Over fifty shots on goal, and not a single one landed,” the same man continued. “What happened to my team? You’re fighters. This isn’t like you, and gosh darn it, I’m so disappointed.”

I glanced up and connected eyes with the gentleman as he spoke. He had on a vintage Whales hat—the same one my father wore to games, a design that was no longer sold. He’d either paid a fortune for the merchandise or he’d been a longtime fan.

Something told me it was the latter.

And we’d let him down.

No. That wasn’t true.

I had let him down.