Page 35 of Two Guys One Puck (Gods Versus Monsters Hockey #2)

THIRTY-FIVE

KTYTOR

O ur teams walk in at the same time, and I feel his gaze burning into the side of my face. I shouldn’t look over, but I do. We meet eyes, and his are cold. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. I did this. He’s mad at me, and I have to deal with it.

I just need to get through this game, and then if we see them at the conference championships or the playoffs, I’ll deal with it then.

I go through my pre-game ritual, and my mood improves. It always does on the ice. Who wouldn’t be happy playing hockey like I do?

Seaborn: You can try to get away from me. Try not to look at me. Try to pretend like I don’t get to you, but I do, and I will. So I’ve already won.

Motherfucker.

Ktytor: Not before I get to you. I’ll win.

Seaborn: Keep telling yourself that.

Seaborn: You couldn’t win when you hated me.

Seaborn: But I know your secret.

My secret?

He can’t possibly know how I feel. He has to be talking about something else. But what could he fucking be talking about?

Seaborn: Сонце

How had he figured it out? Had I slipped up and texted it? I scroll back through our messages, and I haven’t. So how has he figured it out?

Ktytor: And?

I can’t expose myself so much.

Seaborn: you can’t hide from me anymore, baby.

Ktytor: Fuck off.

I toss my phone and grab the tape for my stick. I shove my rage down. I can’t let him get to me.

Whatever. I want a fight, and now I know I’ll get it.

If he wants me to be a problem, he can have it.

I pinky wave at Seaborn and he scowls across the ice, and I cannot wait to push all his buttons. And if that makes me a terrible person, I don’t care.

We clash as soon as the puck drops. It’s not just Seaborn and me. It’s both teams.

Going into the third period, we already have a hundred minutes of penalties awarded, setting a record for the most ever awarded in a Myth League game.

And it’s not stopping anytime soon.

I still can’t get Seaborn to hit me, and the game is still tied 0-0.

My team wins the puck drop, and I race towards the goal. I need to score to piss him off.

We slam into each other, fighting for position.

I need to piss him off.

“I love when you dry hump me on the ice, sweetheart.”

He growls.

“Mmm. Right in my ear. Please.” I let my voice get higher, not even caring if I get called gay in that moment.

“Fucking stop,” he says through his teeth.

“Don’t stop.” I groan a little too realistically, swinging around him as one of my teammates passes the puck towards me.

He hesitates—only for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough time. I redirect the puck and drive it into the back of the goal.

I scream, throwing my fist in the air when the light flashes. My teammates slam into me to celebrate. Now all we have to do is not fuck it up for the next eight minutes.

But when we meet again, Seaborn has found his fucking balls.

I’m living for it. I want all of his fucking rage. I use it to score a second goal.

“Two zero baby doll. No way you’re coming back from that.”

“Ten goals won’t make you miss my cock less,” Seaborn says and steals the puck from me sending it down the ice.

My ears ring.

He laughs, slamming his shoulder into me as he goes past. I skate after him, seething.

“Anyone could have heard you,” I hiss.

“And?”

“And how about don’t be a bitter bitch? You can’t have me anymore,” I snap, finally having had it with him.

He blows out a breath and throws his gloves off.“You’re the only bitter one. Because you can’t fucking let anyone close, and that’s your weakness. It’s easier not to care, so you don’t allow it. That makes you a coward.” His words get under my skin.

There is little worse than being called a coward to my people.

Even if he’s right, my blood boils.

We trade a few blows, and he clocks me in the jaw.

The pain pisses me off more, and I can’t walk any of this back. I can’t even stop the fight, and maybe I want him to hate me because hating me is better than not caring.

I let him punch, slipping to the side so his fist barely misses my face while I grab his wrist and arm, throwing my body weight around to get my leg behind his to use his own momentum against him.

Like we’ve rehearsed this a dozen times, we spin around, and he goes over my leg, sending him falling backward with me on top.

He slams into the ice, landing on his ass while I come down pretty unscathed on my knees. An old jujitsu technique, and I can’t help but grin because my old man would have loved it.

That doesn’t stop the fight. We half get to our knees, still throwing punches until the refs wrestle us apart.

“What the fuck was that?” he hisses when we’re left to our time in the penalty box.

“Don’t start a fight you can’t finish.” I wipe my bloody mouth with the back of my hand, refusing to look at him.

“Don’t fucking tell me I started this. You came on the ice with one aim. You fucking told me you’d make sure we fought.” Seaborn spits.

“That’s my fucking job. This is hockey, in case you forget what we are all fucking doing here. Or maybe you let your feelings get in the way.”

He laughs. “Says the guy running away from his. Are you too emotional, baby?” The pet name stings. “Can’t handle being called a coward?”

Rage prickles over my skin, and I’m buzzing with it. “And you poked the bear one too many times. That’s what you get, sweetheart.”

“I cannot believe you’re fucking serious.”

“You can’t believe it? You can’t believe I won’t put you in your fucking place. Is part of the rich history of hockey. Stop taking everything so personally.” I can’t let him know he’s getting to me.

“You like jiu jitsu threw me on the fucking ice.” He looks over for the first time, but I avoid his eyes.

“Is your ass bruised again, cupcake? Do you need some ice?”

“Go fuck yourself.” Seaborn shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me. Maybe that hurts more than anything else.

“Isn’t that what you’re trying to do?”

He hisses, and I know I’ve hit a nerve.

I don’t know what my aim is. What the fuck am I even doing?

There is nothing worse than being a coward, and he’s right, I’m being a fucking coward.