“Davies, that’s enough.” Cole’s voice cuts through the red haze. “You made your point. Fighting’s done.”
I shove Hertz one more time, reveling in the way he stumbles. His helmet is askew and there’s blood trickling fromhis nose. Good. In my periphery, Coach is screaming, his face purple.
“You’re fucking crazy, man,” Hertz spits, his voice high and panicked now.
“No,” I say, my tone deadly calm, even as my chest heaves. “I’m in love. And if youevertalk about her like that again, what just happened will feel like a fucking hug. You understand me?”
“That’s a game misconduct,” the head ref screams in my face, pointing toward the tunnel. “You’re done. Get off the ice.”
“Worth it,” I mutter, skating backward, my eyes still locked on Hertz.
Logan skates alongside me, his lips twitching. “I genuinely don’t know if I’ve ever been so proud of you in my life.”
“He talked about Kennedy like she’s—” I puff out a breath. I can’t even finish the sentence. My hands shake with adrenaline, my heart pounding wildly against my sternum.
“He could’ve looked at you funny and I’d say he deserves it.” Logan claps me on the back. “You did good, even if you are looking at a suspension.”
“I don’t care,” I admit as I exit the ice.
It’s the truth. I don’t care about the suspension or the fine or whatever statement the league is going to put out. All I care about is that Hertz and hopefully the rest of his team understand that Kennedy Caplan isn’t a punchline. She’s not a joke. She’s not a gold digger or opportunist or whatever bullshit narrative people want to spin.
She’s mine. And I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.
I sit in my gear, lost in my thoughts, only snapping out of the haze when the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the period.
Fuck. I hold back a groan as reality hits me. No coach likes bench-clearing fights. It means lost control, penalties, and potential suspensions. And a goalie starting one?
The door slams open thirty seconds later, the movement so aggressive it nearly rips off its hinges.
“What the fuck was that, Davies?” Coach shouts, voice bouncing off the concrete walls. “Do you have any idea what you just did?”
“He was talking about Kennedy?—”
“I don’t care if he was reciting her goddamn social security number.” His face is inches from mine now. “You’re a goalie! You don’t leave your crease and you sure as hell don’t attack a forward with your blocker.”
“He said?—”
“Doesn’t fucking matter. Your head has to be in the game and nowhere else.” He paces across the locker room, his hands in his graying hair, that vein in his forehead pulsing. “But no, you had to go all knight-in-shining-armor, and now you’re looking at a suspension right before playoffs.”
“She’s dealing with enough shit because of me,” I say, my voice low. “She doesn’t need assholes like Hertz adding to it.”
“So you thought the best response was assault?”
“I thought the best response was making it crystal fucking clear that disrespecting her isn’t acceptable.”
He stops pacing and stares at me. “You picked one hell of a time to grow a spine about your personal life, Davies.”
“Coach—”
“Save it.” He holds up a hand. “And don’t talk to any media or I will hand-deliver your balls to Sloane on a silver fucking platter with a smile on my face. The league will review this tomorrow and hand down a suspension. My guess is three to five games.”
Exhaling, I dip my chin. “I understand.”
“Do you?” His voice softens slightly. “Because this isn’t just about you anymore. This is about the team. This is about our playoff chances. This is about?—”
“I know.” I meet his eye. “And I’m sorry for that, but I’m not sorry for defending Kennedy.”
As my teammates pour into the locker room sporting bruises and manic smiles, Coach studies me. “Shower and get dressed. And Davies?”
