Number fourteen for the Wolves. I didn’t know his name, didn’t care to learn it. What I did know was that he’d been watching me for the past several minutes, his eyes finding me in the crowd every time there was a pause in the game.
It started with looks, but then those glances started lingering, his gaze traveling over the jersey I was wearing with an expression that made my skin crawl.
During a TV timeout, the players gathered near their respective benches. Number fourteen was positioned near the glass, directly in front of me. He turned, looked right at me, and his lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
More like a smirk.
I crossed my arms over my chest and looked away, refusing to engage.
He skated closer to the glass. Close enough that I could hear him when he spoke.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
I didn’t acknowledge him. Kept my eyes fixed on the ice, on Owen, on anywhere else.
“I’m talking to you. Blondie in the jersey.”
A few people around me noticed now, their attention shifting from the ice to whatever was unfolding between me and this asshole.
I finally met his eyes. “Can I help you?”
His smirk widened. He leaned in, close enough that his breath fogged the glass. “You should take off that ugly jersey and wear mine. I would look a lot better on you.”
My lip curled up in disgust as the blood drained from my face.
“Excuse me?” The blood flooded back in a rush of heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with fury.
“You heard me.” He was getting off on making me uncomfortable, on the power trip of saying whatever he wanted, and knowing I couldn’t do anything about it. “Taylor’s a bitch. You want a real man, you come find me after the game.”
“I’d rather choke.”
His laugh was ugly. “Feisty. I like that.”
A body slammed into the glass so hard I stumbled backward.
Owen.
He came out of nowhere, crossing the ice like a missile locked onto a target. His stick clattered to the surface as he pinned number fourteen against the boards, his forearm pressed against the guy’s chest, his face inches away.
“Stay the fuck away from her.”
Number fourteen shoved back, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought they were going to drop gloves right there. Owen’s fists were clenched at his side, and his whole body was vibrating with violence.
But he didn’t swing. He stepped back, jabbing a finger at the guy’s chest one final time before skating away. His jaw was tight enough to crack. His eyes found mine through the glass, and what I saw there wasn’t anger. It was possession. Protection. A promise that this wasn’t over.
The refs were blowing whistles, trying to restore order. Number fourteen was still running his mouth, gesturing at me, at Owen, clearly trying to escalate the situation. But Owen had already rejoined his teammates.
The puck dropped, and Owen proceeded to absolutely destroy them.
I’d never seen him play like that. Every check was devastating. Every shot was a cannon blast. He was everywhere at once, forechecking, backchecking, winning every battle along the boards. The Wolves couldn’t contain him because he’d become something elemental, something unstoppable.
Number fourteen made the mistake of trying to hit him. Owen saw it coming from a mile away, absorbed the impact, then used the guy’s momentum against him, sending him sprawling across the ice.
The crowd roared its approval, but that wasn’t enough.
The next time they crossed paths, there was no finesse. No strategic checking or skillful maneuvering. Just Owen dropping his gloves and grabbing number fourteen by the jersey before the guy even knew what was happening.
The fight was brutal and beautiful.
