closer. Closer still—with nobody else around him to stop him. I was so focused on Tristan, so convinced that he was going to score, that I forgot about my own job. For one-tenth of a second, I completely forgot about the guy I was supposed to be watching.
He was on his feet and moving to push past me, using his shoulder to plow over me. I darted to the right, using my entire body to block him. The hit, when it came, was hard, damn near knocking the breath from my lungs. But it wasn't the hit that hurt. As bad as that was, it paled in comparison to the sharp sting just below my right eye from the guy's high stick. His blade had come up under my visor and caught me high on the cheek, slicing flesh. I could already feel the heat of the blood against my skin, taste the metallic bite of it against my tongue.
Noise erupted around me. Cheers and jeers from the sparse crowd in the stands. Shouts from both benches. Yells from the players on the ice.
The one sound I didn't hear was the shrill whistle of the officials—or the blare of a horn signaling a goal.
Dammit! No way in hell did they miss it, not when one official was less than five feet away watching us. I shot him a disbelieving look and damn near lost my shit when he shrugged, like he didn't have a care in the world.
Fuck that shit.
I whirled around and grabbed the other guy's sweater to keep him from skating away. It would have been tempting to just jam my stick between his legs and send him flying across the ice but I had a feeling I'd get my ass called out for it. I'd probably get called out for this, too, but the fucker had it coming.
He spun around, that sneer still in place, like he was actually daring me to do something about it. I smiled—a nice big one that would have shown my teeth if not for the protective mouthguard—then dug in with my skates and took off. He wasn't far from me, maybe two or three feet, so I didn't have time to build up a lot of speed. I didn't need to—I was going more for subtle payback than blatant retaliation. I jammed my shoulder into his chest hard enough to send him flying then kept on going, acting like it had been nothing more than an accident.
He should have left it at that. He struck first, I got him back. That made us even as far as I was concerned, even though he had drawn blood with that high stick. The guy must not have been very bright, though, because he came after me again, hitting me low in the back until I stumbled to my knees.
That was all the invitation I needed. I got back to my feet, threw my gloves to the ice, and whirled to meet him in one fluid move. Bare fists connected with skin, more than once. Cheers and shouts echoed around the ice, nothing more than background noise as I curled one hand into his sweater and pulled back with my other. It would have been a hell of a hit, too, enough to end the fight, if the officials had jumped in to separate us.
Funny how they suddenly didn't seem to have any problems blowing those damn whistles.
Chapter Eight
Dylan
"Everything okay?"
"Hm?" Morgan looked up from the duffle bag she was going through, her face a mask of disinterest. Physically, she was maybe ten feet away from me but mentally, she was in a completely different universe.
"Yeah. Everything's fine."
"You sure about that?"
"Positive." She pulled some clothes from the duffel bag—the same skimpy pajamas she'd worn last night—then slowly descended the steps. I wanted to call bullshit but figured that might be pushing things. She'd been distant all night, ever since we'd hooked up after the game. I'd barely gotten a smile from her when I first saw her and it had only gone downhill from there.
My only consolation was that she had been just as distant with Addy and Jacqui when they tried to draw her into some conversation while we were at the bar. Morgan had been so quiet, uncomfortable even, that I finally suggested we go home. From the look that had flashed across her face, you'd think I suggested marriage or something—
Until I realized what I had said. Home. Like this was her