The guy still clocks it and leans closer, his chin jerking toward where Lulu is seated in the stands. “Bet she likes it rougher than you think.”
My grip tightens on my stick, and that’s when his eyes snap to me. He sees it—the way I stiffen, the way my chest heaves—and his grin turns sharp.
“Ohhh,interesting.Maybe it’s not big brother I should be asking. What do you say, Miller? Does she moanyourname or your injured goalie’s?”
The blood roars in my ears, and my gloves are gone before the ref can blink.
He barely has time to smirk before I grab his jersey, slam him backward, fists already flying. One cracks against his cheek, another glances off his visor. He laughs, blood slicking his teeth before he swings too, catching me across the cheekbone, but I don’t feel it. All I feel is the surge, the white-hot fury in my chest.
“That’s it?” he spits, shoving back, glove in my collar. “No wonder she likes Hutch better.”
White noise floods my head. I don’t hear the crowd, don’t hear the ref’s shouting. Just the burn of his words, curling around everything I’m trying to keep buried.
“Don’t fucking talk about her,or him,” I snarl, driving my fist into his jaw again and again until my chest heaves.
We’re tangled, spitting blood and curses, skates carving trenches in the ice. The arena’s deafening, fans on their feet, the rest of the boys hammering sticks against the boards.
The Dragon laughs, lips split, teeth red. “Touchy, Miller. What’s the matter? She not let you get your dick wet yet? Bet I could dip it.”
Rage blinds me, but I don’t answer—just close the distance and let my fist do the talking. I tackle him full force, the two of uscrashing down hard. “Chirp her again, and your next highlight’s on the injury report.”
My knuckles are raw, split open, his jersey bunched in my fist. He twists and lands a hook that rattles my jaw, but I don’t let go.
His laugh chokes into a wet sound. “Maybe she can screammyname when she comes—”
Something inside me breaks clean open. I lunge, swing my arm back—and never see the hit coming.
A body slams into me from the blindside, shoulder first, and my helmet tears loose. My skull kisses the ice with a sickening crack, and stars burst behind my eyes.
The last thing I hear before the black swallows me is Lulu’s cry from the stands, and then I’m out.
Chapter thirty-five
This is the medical room, not a Thunderdome
Lulu
Logan goes down, and the world rips out from under me.
The crack of his head on the ice is still echoing when the scream tears out of my throat, so loud and raw, before I can even think to stop it.
Charlie jolts beside me, clutching Theo tighter as he starts to wail, confused and frightened.
“Oh my god,” Charlie breathes, white-faced, trying to shield Theo’s eyes.
“Holy cuntballs!” Zoe cusses so loudly, the people in front of us whip their heads around.
On the ice, Logan’s sprawled out and motionless. His helmet’s skidded halfway across the rink, blood streaking bright acrosshis cheek and jaw. Medics are already vaulting the boards, sliding and scrambling across to him.
I can’t breathe. “I have to get down to him.”
Tamara’s hand clamps around my arm. “Lulu, why are you—” She cuts herself off, eyes darting between me and the ice. “Why do you want to get down there so bad?”
“I just—” My voice cracks, breaking in two. “I just have to.”
Charlie’s torn between covering Theo’s ears and watching in horror, while Zoe’s narrowed eyes cut to me, reading me in a way no one else understands right now.
“Shit,” Zoe mutters, low enough that only Tamara and I can hear.
