1
SKATE. FIGHT. DANCE?
Nate
“People think I’ve got anger issues. I think I’ve got idiot issues. Guess which one’s harder to fix?”
He was already bleeding before he realized he was smiling.
Just a split knuckle. Skin torn clean where fist met bone. The sting cut through the fog in his head like a blade, sharp and welcome. The ice under his skates was chewed to hell, torn up by drills no one bothered finishing anymore. Nate barreled straight into Mason Moore, one of the Hammerheads’ rookies. The kid went crashing into the boards, the glass rattling like a warning shot. Someone whooped from the far end of the rink. Someone yelled Nate’s name.
Too late.
Mason swung back, high and wild. Rookie mistake. His fist clipped Nate’s jaw, not hard enough to hurt, but enough for a tooth to catch the inside of his cheek and draw more blood. Nate tasted it and laughed under his breath. Finally. Someone on this gutless team had the balls to swing back.
“About time,” he growled. And then he launched.
They tangled in skates and adrenaline, gloves skidding across the ice. No one stopped them. The Hammerheads hadn’t looked this alive in months. They were a joke, and everyone knew it. Shit arena. Shittier record. A team other franchises used to pad their stats. They didn’t have finesse. They had bruises. They had blood. And they hadhim.
His stats were a mess. He racked up penalties like a body count. The only thing he led the League in anymore was misconducts. So he did what he did best and hauled Mason up by the jersey. Mason sagged against him, chest heaving. Blood dripped from Nate’s knuckles and froze where it hit the ice.
“You’re fucking unhinged,” Mason gasped.
Nate shoved him off. “Still our best shot at a win.”
“Jesus Christ, Eriksson! This is practice, not a goddamn cage match.”
A whistle cut through the noise, and everything froze.
Jaime McAllister ground to a halt at the sprawled rookie’s side. A former NHL golden boy, Jaime had the rather unfortunate task of being the captain of the New Haven Hammerheads. He was big. Mean. Played center once upon a time, but had been shoved into defense after an injury decimated his scoring average.Now?He lingered in the defensive zone and checked people for fun. And he was one of the only guys on the team who could handle Nate at his most feral.
He straightened, breath steaming in the chilled air, pulling off his gloves like he was unwrapping a gift labeled ‘violence’. His eyes locked onto the kid still writhing on the ice.
“Kid’s gotta learn,” Nate sniffed, jaw tight, pulse thudding at his temples.
“And he’s gonna learn from you hitting him like a fucking freight train?” Jaime’s jaw ticked. “Reed and Malachi are still on injured reserve. Use your head, Nate.” Jaime grit his teeth. “Fuckwit.”
“Better he get used to taking it from me than some dude from another team.” Nate shrugged.
Jaime’s glare was glacial. “Let it go.” Unspoken.Captain’s orders.
But Nate wasn’t wired to let things go. He wasn’t apologizing for knocking some brat back to juniors. The kid had swaggered in like he owned the place, all shiny teeth and TikTok abs, acting like vets like Nate and Jaime had nothing left to give. And the thing that stung, under that thick skin of his, was thatmaybe they fucking didn’t.
The New Haven Hammerheads were the poor cousins of the NHL. Their smaller, broken-down arena. Their practically non-existent fans. Fuck all marketing, zero sponsorship deals. And a bunch of guys who felt like their careers were circling the fucking toilet bowl. And Nate? Yeah. He was at the top of the shit list. A position that was elevated when the rink door clanged open.
Coach Dominic “Sully” Sullivan stood rigid by the bench, gripping his clipboard like he wanted to snap it. Beside him was Bryant Delaney, the team owner. Polished smile. Designer suit. A man who had no business standing in a rink that smelled like sweat and old tape. One look from Coach and the rest of the team scattered like roaches. Even McAllister gave Nate agrim shake of his head before skating off, that smug golden boy aura dimming just enough to be insulting.
Practice was over.
Nate peeled off his helmet and raked a hand through his dark curls, sweat already cooling on his scalp. He coasted over to Sully and Delaney, leaning into a sharp stop just shy of the boards. Ice sprayed up, dusting their shoes. Sully didn’t blink, but softboi Delaney flinched. Nate’s answering grin was feral.
“Coach.”
“The Players’ Association called,” Sully said. No greeting. No bullshit.
Nate leaned on the boards like he was waiting for his nails to dry. “And?”
“Suspended,” Delaney said. “Three months.”
