Owen’s fist connected with a crack that I swear I heard all the way up in the stands. Number fourteen tried to swing back, but Owen had the advantage, reach, strength, and a cold, calculated fury that turned every punch into a statement.
This is for talking to her.
This is for looking at her.
This is for thinking you had any right to even breathe in her direction.
The refs finally pulled them apart, but not before Owen landed two more devastating hits. Blood was streaming from number fourteen’s nose, his face already swelling.
Owen was escorted to the penalty box, five minutes for fighting. He didn’t seem to care. As he skated past the glass, past me, he looked up with a smile that was all teeth and satisfaction.
Worth it, his expression said. Completely fucking worth it.
I pressed my palm against the glass, and he pressed his hand against the other side. Just long enough for everyone to see.
The crowd around me was buzzing with speculation and curiosity.
I didn’t care.
Let them talk. Let them wonder. Let them see Owen’s name on my back and know exactly what it meant.
The rest of the game passed in a blur of adrenaline and emotion. Even down a man, the Eagles held their lead. Owen came out of the penalty box, scoring another goal within three minutes.
Final score: Eagles 4, Wolves 2.
The celebration was deafening. Players mobbing each other on the ice, fans screaming themselves hoarse, the announcer’s voice barely audible over the chaos.
I waited.
Waited while the teams shook hands. Waited while the crowd began to thin. Waited while the players disappeared into the tunnel, their victory cheers echoing off the concrete walls.
Then my phone buzzed.
Owen: Locker room. Five minutes.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I made my way down from the stands, navigating through the dispersing crowd until I found the door he’d described. It was unmarked, slightly ajar, and when I pushed it open, I found myself in a narrow hallway.
He was waiting for me.
Still in his gear, helmet off, hair plastered to his forehead. He looked exhausted and exhilarated and absolutely gorgeous. His chest still heaved from exertion, eyes burning with something that made my knees weak.
“Hi,” I managed.
He didn’t answer with words.
He just pulled me to him and kissed me like he needed to taste me more than he needed to breathe.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against mine, his breath ragged against my lips.
“You’re incredible,” I whispered. “That fight…”
“He deserved worse. Nobody talks to you like that.”
“Owen…”
“Did you see the goal?” He was grinning now. “The one after I got out of the box?”
“I saw.” I was laughing. “I saw everything.”
