Jackson playfully punches me in the dick. “Like you said, asshole, it was written in the stars.”
Chapter 11
Killian
The roar of the crowd engulfs me as I line up for the opening faceoff. Across from me, Jackson crouches low, his eyes locked on mine with breath-stealing intensity. Our sticks hover mere inches apart, the anticipation crackling between us like electricity.
I still can't believe how stubborn he is, how determined to play through the pain. He's going to push himself to the limit, and he's going to push me right along with him.
Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same.
The ref drops the puck and our sticks clash in a flurry. I gain inside leverage on Jackson, angling my hip to nudge him off balance.
The puck skips free toward my winger but Jackson recovers, his hand darting out to tug at my jersey as he gives chase.
“Asshole.” I bat his hand away.
He just smirks, then slams his hip into mine, sending me crashing into the boards. “Not getting through me that easy.”
I grit my teeth and push off the boards, my skates carving deep grooves into the ice as I race after him.
We battle for the loose puck, our bodies colliding and tangling in a dance that's as familiar as breathing. I absorb his shoves and sweep the puck away, evading his next attempt at a check.
The Titans’ defense stack up at their blue line, only, I'm not giving up that easily. But Jackson slams into me from the side, pinning me up against the glass with the full weight of his body. “Where do you think you're going?”
“To win this fucking game.”
My team moves the puck around with quick, precise passes. Trembley takes a slap shot but Novotny blocks it, his pads absorbing the impact with a dull thud.
I lunge for the rebound, my stick outstretched, but Zach Knight beats me there, sending the puck skittering up the boards and out of reach. Jackson scoops it up, then passes to Walsh, the two of them tearing off down the ice like bullets.
I curse under my breath and pivot to give chase, my lungs burning with the effort. Luckily, our goalie comes through with a glove save and I skate off to the bench.
We trade more cheap shots and hits as the period ends scoreless.
Much of the second period is the same. Scoreless. Cheap shots. Mostly legal hitting.
It’s not like our normal games. Can’t be. These refs won’t allow it, and they’re the ones in control.
I sprint back to break up a two-on-one chance. As I pivot to chase the puck up the ice, my winger banks it off the boards in aperfect pass. I stretch out my stick to receive it, my eyes locked on the prize, but my feet fly out from under me.
“Oops, sorry about that.” Jackson’s smirk is back as he scoops up the turnover.
I grind my teeth. Part of me wishes I didn’t know about his ribs because I’d lay the fucker out right here, right now.
Petrov takes a slapshot and it goes off our goalie’s stick and out of bounds. As Jackson skates by, I glare at him for the trip. “Listen, fuckface. Don’t think I won’t get back at you.”
He just grins, cocky and infuriating. “What are you going to do?”
I skate closer, keeping an eye on the refs and our teammates as I lean in, making sure to look like I’m goading him. “Maybe drug your ass and lock your cock in a chastity cage while you're knocked out. Won't let you out for a week.”
He jerks, his eyes wide and shocked. “You . . . We’re in the middle of a game. You can't say that shit right now.”
I chuckle and skate away. Good to know sex talk will throw my boyfriend off kilter.
But my triumph is short-lived. On our next shift, Jackson’s on breakaway, Trembley hot on his heels, only Jackson’s faster, his skates flashing as he dekes and spins, slipping the puck through our goalie's five-hole like it's nothing.
“Dammit!”
