The crowd lost it.
The very air around her was rattling with noise as a slow smile spread across her lips – and Tate winked at her before skating off to get to work. The music, the people, Gina, her heart, everything was roaring with an intensity that was staggering.
That man, that player, was slowly transforming into more than a friend – and she darn well knew it. Holding back this feeling, those sensations, that knowledge would be like trying to hold back a wildfire with an empty squirt gun.
Maybe they were going to have to redefine what ‘friendship’ was,she thought, watching as the players lined up and waited.
She waited with bated breath. Her heart was slamming against her ribcage. This was Tate’s moment to shine, and she hoped they cleaned up the Kodiaks for his sake.
“Let’s gooooo!” Gina screamed wildly – saying everything that she felt in her heart and soul.
The puck dropped.
The game was brutal. It was carnage dressed up in helmets and padding. Every crack of a stick, every thunderous slam of body against body, echoed in her chest. The sound wasn’t just noise—it was violence, sharp and resonant, like a drumbeat of chaos pounding through the arena. The smell of cold air, sweat, and metal hung around them, making her pulse race faster with every clash.
Her stomach turned when she saw the first streak of crimson slash across the ice. Blood. It gleamed shockingly bright against the whiteness, an ugly reminder that this wasn’t just a game—it was a battlefield.
Nettie flinched and pressed a hand over her mouth. She didn’t like gory things. She couldn’t even watch horror movies without peeking through her fingers, and here she was, watching the man she was falling for fight in a world that seemed so barbaric. She saw sprays of blood from the full-contact sport on the ice, saw screaming matches that would make anyone blush as their voices carried over the ice, one player shoved another into the boards -hard…
A Kodiak player slammed Theo Batiste into the boards with such force while he kicked at him, causing Batiste to hit theboards and then collapse onto the ice. Nettie winced, the sharp crack of his helmet’s impact ringing louder than the whistle.
They had a player down.
Aimee, his wife, gasped in fear nearby.
Before Nettie even processed the hit, she saw Tate’s expression transform. Rage lit his face like fire catching dry kindling. The man she knew—calm, collected, a little distant—disappeared. In his place was something raw, furious, and terrifyingly protective.
He launched himself at the offending player.
It was a blur of dark green and gray as the Coyotes swarmed, forming a protective wall around the chaos at the center of the rink. From the stands, it looked like a storm of muscle and fury, an impenetrable shield for their teammate while Tate ‘handled’ the Kodiak player beneath a wall of green and grey jerseys, cheering him on in obvious approval.
The Kodiaks were trying to start more fights on the ice, but none of the Coyotes were willing to engage. They were protecting Tate and giving Batiste a chance to get to his feet from such a hard hit.
Beside her, Gina’s hand flew to her mouth, and Nettie mimicked the movement without realizing it. Several of the Coyotes’ wives mirrored them, their wide eyes fixed on the fight. Around them, though, Coyotes fans were on their feet, shouting, fists pumping the air, voices thick with approval. The energy was electric, frenzied—half shock, half exhilaration.
Then came the gasp.
“That’s why we’re Coyotes!”Aimee yelled proudly, her voice piercing above the din. It was enough to rally part of the crowd into thunderous cheers, as if her declaration alone had given them permission to revel in what had just happened.
The wall of Coyotes players shifted, pulling back slightly.
Nettie’s breath caught.
There was Tate, gripping the Kodiak player by the front of his jersey, his knuckles raw, his chest heaving with fury. Blood dripped from the other man’s lip. And yet, Tate wasn’t finished.
The referee parted the dark jerseys like a prophet cutting through a sea of bodies. Overhead, a microphone dangled down, catching every word in a silence that seemed impossible after the riotous noise a moment ago.
“… If you ever take a dirty shot like that at one of my teammates again, you’ll never play again,” Tate snarled, his voice low, dangerous, every word vibrating with venom. His finger jabbed toward the Kodiak player’s face, commanding attention. “You’re lucky that my brother is okay… and that I don’t finish the job now.”
“We’re better than this, better than you…” Batiste screamed at him, puffing up his chest angrily as he began mouthing off now that he wasn’t dazed from the impact. He spat blood onto the ice as several players tried to grab him, pulling him away.
The referee’s call came sharp, final, and merciless. “Intentional slew foot and unsportsmanlike conduct!”
The crowd erupted into cheers as the Kodiak was removed from the game. Nettie blinked, startled at the term.
“What’s ‘slew foot’?” she asked, her voice pitched higher than normal as she turned to Gina.
“He kicked Batiste on the back of the legs, knocking them out from under him on the ice. That’s why he went sprawling—and honestly, I’m surprised Tate didn’t beat him up worse,” Gina replied distractedly, her gaze glued to the ice as the players began lining up again, adrenaline still humming through the arena.
