Like that would ever happen.
But she held no judgment, just listened, assured me she’d support whatever I decided was right.
On the ice, the Titans are up by three goals by the end of the second period. Jackson made some errors, including a blind pass that ended up with Cornell scoring.
“Are they even trying? Looks like they’re playing as if it’s just a practice.” Trembley stretches, then pulls the bill of his cap down as if he’s about to take a nap. “Expected more from them. This shit’s kinda tame.”
“Next period will be brutal. Things always go sideways when one team is getting their ass whooped.”
Raiyne’s not wrong. And, true to his prediction, the third period is chippy as hell.
Unfortunately for Cornell, that means the Titans’ leashes came off. Both teams have two men in the penalty box consistently. Minor and major penalties are being handed out like candy on Halloween.
And with the amount of blood being spilled on both sides, you’d think this was a blood drive instead of a hockey game.
Petrov sends the puck into the offensive zone and Jackson chases it down in the corner. Then Cornell’s biggest defender charges and cross-checks him into the boards, the hit vicious and dirty. Jackson crumples to the ice, his body going limp, and for a moment I swear my heart stops beating entirely.
I jump to my feet, a bit too fast to come across as curious. Bile creeps its way up my throat when Jackson doesn’t get up right away. Fuck, he may be knocked out.
Then the defender brings his stick down on Jackson’s side in a brutal slash.
A menacing sound, almost like a roar, bellows up from deep within my chest as I punch the plexiglass. “Motherfucker, I will end you!”
I don’t even see Jackson anymore, my focus solely on the shithead who’s grinning. “You’re dead, you hear me? You’re fuckingdead!”
I slam my fist against the plexiglass again, and again, and again, the pain barely registering through the haze of my fury. I want to rip that smug motherfucker apart with my bare hands, want to make him bleed and beg andhurtfor daring to touch what's mine.
Raiyne lays a hand on my shoulder. “Killian?”
“Jesus, Blackwell. You okay?” Trembley juts his chin toward the glass, and fuck, there’s blood on it.
I look down at my hand and sure enough, I split my knuckles open. My teammates look at me, a mixture of concern andcuriosity on their faces. But not the good kind. More like the ‘you have some explaining to do’ kinda way.
My body shakes and I turn back to the ice. Jackson’s staring at me, his eyes full of confusion, shock, and something else, something raw and vulnerable that makes my breath catch in my throat.
But then he blinks and it's gone, his expression shuttering closed as he pushes himself to his feet, shrugging off his teammates' concerned hands.
“I need to get out of here.” I shove past my teammates and exit the arena before I do something stupid because seeing Jackson hurt, seeing him vulnerable, unleashed something dark and possessive and terrifying inside me.
Something that roarsmine, mine, mineand makes me want to rip the world apart to keep him safe.
I snort and shove my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt.
Just because some of my cum marked him doesn’t make him mine.
Only, the primal part deep inside calls bullshit. The same part that wants revenge against Cornell because no one gets to hurt Jackson but me.
Chapter 7
Killian
I collapse onto the bench in the locker room after showering, my chest heaving and my muscles trembling with exhaustion. The game against Penn State was brutal. Took everything we all had to squeeze out a win.
“Want to tell us what’s gotten into you?” Trembley stares at me while putting on his sneakers. “You were like the goddamn Punisher out there.”
“It’s Regionals. Not holding back.”
My response garners eye rolls from him and Raiyne. I glare at the both of them, taking a deep, measured breath. “Got something to say?”
