Up.
Get up.
There’s less than a minute on the clock.
Tied. We are tied. Anything can happen now.
Air burns in my lungs, but I can still move. I shove myself back into play and wedge between the puck and the net. I shake my head to see through the sparkles and clear the ringing in my ears.
I blink and force myself to focus. Bugrov’s stick conveniently takes Phillips out at the ankles. The puck goes loose.
My eyes find the ref. He’s a blur of stripes chasing the puck. He didn’t see it. The crowd did. Half the gallery behind the net is screaming for vengeance.
“You fuckers are soft,” Bugrov cackles. “Getting your knot wet has made you all soft.”
Phillips grunts so loudly I hear it halfway down the rink. Bugrov is plowing through everything on the ice. Phillips snaps the puck behind the net before going down.
Bugrov elbows Phillips in the face.
I stretch for the puck. Something pulls in my shoulder. That’s going to hurt later.
I push harder and send the puck spinning down the ice. Seconds of play left. Plenty of time. Everyone chases down the ice. Almost everyone.
Phillips makes it to his feet, spitting blood.
“Maybe I should give that sweet little omega of yours the special treatment. Make her mine. Put some fire back in you.” Bugrov spits out the words.
I scan my players’ faces. Half of them are red with anger, half are white in horror.
High stick across Phillips’ chest. I hear the crack when his head hits the ice. The red trickle from his nose glows like neon.
You don’t fuck with my team like that. Everyone’s already off the walls about omegas, cameras catching every second, waiting for us to slip. But you do not fuck with my people.
I feel it start in my frozen toes. It flashes through me like lightning. Rage. Pure and simple rage. Bugrov has his back to me. Everyone is breaking for the puck.
And he’s just chuckling. Standing there, watching the last seconds of the game tick down like he didn’t just threaten our omegas.
Gloves off.
I need to feel the contact, skin on skin. I dig my toe into the ice and push off, colliding with him just as he’s turning. I hear the buzzer sound. Game over. But it’s not over.
“Don’t fuck with what’s mine.” I growl, drop my stick, and put him face first into the glass. His grunt is satisfying, but not enough.My field of vision is tiny pinpricks, just his smug smirk. I can hear my name from somewhere far off, but it’s muted by the sound of my fist connecting with his face.
I punch again and again.
We go down, tripping over my stick. It’s wedged under him. I put my knee on it and snap it, shards scatter across the ice. I jab it right into his side where the pads gap.
“BECKETT!” I barely hear my name.
Suddenly, bodies are in the way. Hands and gravity are dragging us apart.
“What the fuck, man? Cool it!”
I roar and break free. All my alpha strength erupts from my center. Then I’m face down, ice biting into my cheek, a metric ton of bodies weighing me down.
“Beckett!”
“On him, get on him!”
