I’m not arrogant enough to think I have a future secured in playing professional hockey.
“Better make a good impression.” Ashton smacks my back.
He knows what I’m up against—my own father.
It’s the mafia or hockey.
Technically, Dante told me after a professional hockey career, I would still be required to join the family business, but if I make it big, there’s no way he’ll have a lick of control over me.
I just have to get famous.
Which starts with impressing Kyler Greyson, the new owner of the New York Ice Dragons and former NHL star hockey player.
“Or you could cozy up to Bristol and get me that introduction.” I wiggle my eyebrows at him.
Liam snorts. He stretches on the ice, getting loosened up before our game. “You’ve clearly never met Bristol.”
“What about Brooks? Is he dating anyone?” Look at me, trying to play matchmaker, so I get an introduction to Kyler Greyson.
“You’d have to ask Brooks.” Liam rolls his eyes and skates away from me. “But I wouldn’t do that to a friend,” he shouts.
During the first quarter, I try to focus on the game and not on the fact Kyler is watching us play. He’s probably more focused on the Predators than the Narwhals. The only way I have a chance of meeting with him is if I’m impressive in tonight’s match.
I manage to make two scores early in the first period. The Predators don’t seem to be taking the match seriously, but then I get bodychecked when chasing after the puck and my helmet flies off.
Fucking asshole.
“Think you’re some hotshot,” Tucker taunts. He doesn’t back down, his fist meeting my jaw, and it stings.
Ashton is right behind me, grabbing the jersey of the guy who hit me and slinging him around on the ice, throwing punch after punch into his side.
The other team races after Ashton. Brooks and Rowan move in to defend.
The referee blows his whistle, not that anyone can hear it.
I’m yanked back by an unfamiliar set of arms, and the fight breaks apart as we’re separated. At least Tucker is thrown into the penalty box.
Liam glances me over. “You okay?” His gaze lands on my jaw for a moment longer than necessary.
I’ll definitely be sporting a bruise tomorrow.
“Fine.”
Tucker seems to have it out for me for the rest of the night. I’m not sure, but it feels like the entire Predators team is in on his little game of beat the shit out of me.
Every time I have the puck, they chase me. Yes, that’s how the game is supposed to go, but after I shoot it to Ashton or Chase, they still faceplant me against the glass.
Every fucking time.
Tucker is the first to attack me. Then it’s one of his buddies, either Black or Wells. They play dirty.
The first time, at least Tucker landed in the penalty box. The second and third times, I get thrown in too.
For fuck’s sake, I can’t catch a break.
That’s just the first period.
In the second period, I feel off my game. Probably because I’m getting the shit kicked out of me every two minutes.
