The ref blows the whistle, separating us before I can do any real damage. I skate back to position, the rage inside me building to a fever pitch. Every cell in my body is screaming for violence, for release.
It happens halfway through the third period. Thompson takes a run at Davis, blindsiding him with a vicious cross-check that sends him crashing face-first into the boards. The sickening crack of impact echoes through the arena as Davis crumples to the ice, blood already pooling beneath his face.
Everything goes silent in my head. A perfect, deadly silence right before a storm.
I'm across the ice in seconds, dropping my gloves before I even reach Thompson. He sees me coming, smirking as he tosses his own gloves aside. Good. At least the fucker's ready to go.
"Come on, Blackwood," he taunts, backing up slightly. "Show me what you got."
My first punch connects with his jaw so hard I feel the vibration all the way up my arm. His head snaps back, but he manages to stay upright, swinging wildly at my face. I duck under it, driving forward to slam him against the boards. The crowd is on its feet, screaming for blood—my blood, his blood, they don't give a shit as long as it spills.
"You like targeting my fucking teammates?" I growl, landing another punch to his ribs that makes him wheeze. "You St. James fucks have turned into a bunch of fucking low lifes since Rhodes quit."
I grab his jersey, yanking him forward before slamming him back against the glass. His helmet cracks against the plexiglass, but I don't stop. The rage is a living thing inside me now, clawing its way out through my fists.
He tries to knee me in the groin, but I twist away, using his momentum to throw him down onto the ice. I'm on him in an instant, straddling his chest as I rain blows down on his face. Blood sprays across the white ice, some of it his, some of it mine where his face split my knuckles open.
"Blackwood! Enough!" The refs are pulling at me now, trying to separate us, but I shrug them off like they're nothing.
Thompson is still conscious, still fucking smirking despite the blood pouring from his nose and mouth. "I’ll tell your mother you said hi," he wheezes. "Right after she cums all over my di?—"
Something snaps inside me. The last thread of control I've been clinging to frays and breaks. I grab him by the throat, squeezing as I slam his head against the ice once, twice, three times. There's a sickening crack—his helmet or the ice, I don't know and don't care.
"Get him off! Get him the fuck off!" The refs are shouting now, more of them piling on.
My guys manage to separate us, four of them hauling me backward as I struggle against their grip. Thompson's face is a bloody mess, his left eye already swelling shut. Good. I hope he feels it every time he blinks for the next month.
"Get him out of here!" the head ref shouts, already signaling to the penalty box.
I scan the ice as they drag me toward the box. Davis is sitting up now, talking to the trainer—thank fuck. My eyes automatically find Reese in the stands. She's on her feet, hands pressed against her mouth, those hazel eyes wide with shock. The sight of her brings me back to myself, just a little. Enough to stop fighting the officials.
"Five minutes for fighting!" the announcer calls out. "Number ninety-one, Ramsey Blackwood!"
They know better than to eject me from the game. My father would have them destitute before I even got my pads stripped in the locker room.
I slide into the sin bin, slamming my stick against the wall as the door clangs shut behind me. My blood is stillpumping hot through my veins, the taste of copper sharp on my tongue. The penalty box attendant gives me a wide berth, like I might reach out and strangle him next.
I scan the ice as play resumes, keeping track of positioning even as my knuckles throb.
A movement in the stands catches my eye. Reese has moved down to the front row, right behind the penalty box. She's leaning over the railing, her face a mix of concern and something else I can't quite place. When our eyes lock, she mouths, "Are you okay?"
I can't help the grin that splits my face. She looks so fucking worried, like I'm the one who got hurt instead of the other guy. I shrug, making sure she can see the blood on my jersey, on my face.
"Yep," I call back loud enough for her to hear. "And I'd do it again."
She shakes her head, that exasperated look I know so well crossing her face. Her eyes roll dramatically, but I catch the smile she's trying to hide. That's my girl.
"You’re a freaking caveman," she mouths back.
I’ll be whatever she wants to call me.
Phantom. Caveman. Ghost. None of it really matters because I’m her best fucking friend, her protector, and her stalker even though she doesn’t know just how much I actually fucking watch her.
My time is up, and I’m let out of the box and skate right over to Coach King. I just know I’m going to be paying for this shit.
"Well, that was fun. Did you have fun? Wanna do it again? Jesus fuck, Blackwood. These guys all look up to youand Astor. You’ll be owing me for this little stunt, you understand?"
I give Coach Kingston a little salute with my hockey stick because it was worth it and skate back out to center ice to finish this fucking game.
