Something in me snaps, and I shove him off hard. Harder than I need to.
He stumbles back a step, hands up like he didn’t do anything. “What? I fell.”
Bullshit.
Rising to my skates, I close the distance before my brain can catch up.
“Yeah, funny way tofall,” I snap.
He grins. That’s what does it. That stupid, smug grin like I’m a joke. Like this is a game inside the game and he’s winning.
“You good, Rourke?” he adds. “Or you gonna cry over a little love tap?”
I don’t remember deciding to move until my gloves are on his pads, shoving him back. “Stay outta my crease, asshole.”
“Make me.”
The words hit a deep and ugly place. Before I can stop it, my blocker catches him under the chin. Not full force, but not light, either. Enough.
Enough to change the tone.
With that one action, everything explodes.
Players rush in from both sides. Bowen’s voice cuts through the chaos, barking orders I barely hear. Tristan’s pulling someone off me. The linesman’s between us, trying to keep it from turning into a full-on brawl.
The ref’s whistle is shrill, constant. “Rourke! Back off!”
I don’t. I’m still locked on him, chest heaving, every muscle tight and ready to go again.
He scoffs and shoves at me again over the linesman’s arm. That grin stays planted, even with a red mark forming on his jaw.
“You’re done,” one of the refs says, grabbing my arm. “That’s enough.”
I yank free, not looking at him, or anyone else for that matter. My world narrows down to one thing.
Protect the crease. Protect your space. Protect—
“Owen.”
Bowen again.
Louder this time. Sharper. It cuts through just enough for me to blink, and reality snaps back in pieces. The crowd is on its feet. The ref stares at me.
Coach Metcalfe stands behind the bench, arms crossed, his expression like a storm about to break. My teammates mill around. They’re not laughing or chirping but watching me.
I take one step back. Then another. My chest rises too fast. My hands vibrate inside my gloves.
The ref points toward the box. “Two minutes. Roughing.”
Could’ve been worse. Should’ve been worse.
Lenyx goes in my place, skating past Bowan on his way to the box.
My friend leans in just enough to say, “Get it under control.”
I don’t answer because I don’t have it under control. Not really. I take a shot of water from the bottle over the net, staring out at the ice, trying to slow my breathing.
The replay flashes on the jumbotron, and from that angle, it looks clean. Like I lost my temper over nothing. Like I went after him. But I know exactly what happened.
