And when someone from the other team slams his shoulder into Eli, sending him against the glass with a hard clap, I rise to my feet. The crowd goes wild. There is screaming and chanting happening all around me, and I don’t know what’s happening until I see gloves flying every which way, landing on the ice around them.
Then fists come out.
Bare fists.
Both of them start punching each other, gripping their jerseys, and then I watch as they go down to the ice. I hold my breath without even realizing that I’m holding my breath until I feel like my lungs are going to explode, and I am forced to release it.
Then the fight is up, and everyone is screaming around me. I hold Ryan against my chest, and then I watch as Eli and the other man are escorted to the other side of the ice, still hurling inaudible screams at one another and shaking their fists before they’re put inside small clear boxes and sit down.
Turning my head, I look over to Clara, and I know that I appear horrified because I am. She gives me a small smile and touches my arm.
“It’s okay,” she says, attempting to soothe me as she pats my forearm gently, but it doesn’t work.
“What just happened?” I ask in a whisper.
She squeezes my forearm. “That was a fight, and they got put in time-out. That’s what happened.”
I turn my head. My lips are parted in awe as I look across the arena at the box. Both of the men are sitting staring straight ahead, their lips pressed together and their jaws clenched. I can see it from here.
“Why would they do that?” I ask once the crowd has settled down.
The announcer starts talking, and I can’t even understand what he’s saying. Everything sounds garbled, but then the audience yells,Who cares? I look around, still not sure about what the hell is going on, but thankfully, Clara starts to explain things to me.
“That’s the penalty box. They got in trouble for fighting. They have to spend so many minutes in there before they can rejoin the game. Sometimes, if there’s a fight, it’s only one of them. Sometimes, it’s both. Any time they commit a penalty offense, it’s to the box. I’ve seen players completely ejected from the games, but not often.”
“I don’t like any of this,” I confess, my eyes sliding down to my lap.
She laughs softly. “You get used to it.” That’s her explanation. Then she continues. “Just like you get used to the mobs of women, puck bunnies they call them, standing outside ready and willing to do whatever.”
Wrinkling my nose at the thought of everything she’s said, I decide that I don’t want to get used to any of it. None of this sounds like anything I like. But as my gaze shifts from my lap to that clear box across from me, I realize that I’ll do all of it. Just one look at him, and I know that he’s worth all of the things I don’t like.
Ever. Single. One.
ELI
Thankfully, my time in the sin bin doesn’t last long. Once I’m out, I set my sights on the motherfucker who was the whole reason I went in there. Number fucking four. He’s playing dirty and rough. He didn’t like me checking his ass, and he’s really not going to like it when I stay on him, glued to him, because I’m about to make that bitch mine.
Once I’m back in the game, I keep on number five. I’m homed in on him. Nobody on the ice matters but him. He tries to check me again and then again. Enough is enough.
Slamming my shoulder into his chest, I hurl him backward against the glass, watching him widen his eyes in surprise.
“Fuck you,” I grind out.
He laughs. Then the gloves come off again. I might get kicked from this game, but right now, I don’t give a fuck. This asshole has been elbowing, pushing, checking, and tripping our players more than once, and his sights have been set on me. I don’t give a fuck why. I’m just going to end it here and now.
“You want a fight, you got it,” I bark.
“Oh, I want it, Abbott.”
My fist flies forward, slamming into the side of his jaw before I reach my arm around his neck, holding his head down, and start to punch him in the face from underneath. I don’t give a fuck anymore. Kick me the fuck out. I’m here for it. But this asshole isn’t going to get away with being a dirty fucker.
Whistles fly around me, referees start tugging at me to pull me off him, but I don’t stop. The first sign of blood should make me release him, but it doesn’t. I see nothing but red, and that red on the ice just spurs me to go harder and faster.
Until I hear my coach screaming, and then I am yanked backward and told to get off the ice.
Ejected.
Misconduct penalty.
