I squared my shoulders, lowered my stick, and locked eyes with him.
He leaned in, breath reeking of arrogance. “That pretty little bride of yours…” He murmured it just loud enough. Just for me. “Blink twice if it was shotgun.”
My grip on the stick tightened.
Don’t react.
Don’t move.
Don’t—
“Did her daddy sell her with a bow…” His grin widened. “Or just a leash?”
The words sliced through me like a fucking blade.
I went still.
The world dropped away.
Ref’s whistle blew.
The puck hit the ice.
I didn’t move.
Logan barely had time to realize his mistake.
I snapped.
Not a check.
Not a play.
An execution.
My gloves hit the ice before the puck finished spinning.
I lunged—shoulder to chest, stick discarded, fists flying. One hand grabbed his jersey, the other slammed straight into his jaw. Once. Twice. Three times.
He tried to hit back.
He didn’t land a single one.
His helmet cracked against the ice as I drove him down, straddled him like a beast, punching until his lip split and the whites of his eyes turned red.
The crowd roared.
The refs screamed.
I didn’t stop.
No one talks about her.
No one.
Not like that.
Not my wife.
