I looked him up and down, my movements exaggerated, then licked my lips. “You offerin’ to get on your knees for me, pretty boy?”
He skated to a stop right in front of me and threw down his stick.
I smirked. “Right now? Sweet.”
I pretended to go for my shorts. His face reddened and his eyes hardened.
He was like a cartoon character whose head was about to explode. He inched closer, looking down on me like I was shit on his shoe.
But before he could throw down, Mironov was between us, pushing me back. I laughed as he separated me from the hulking giant on the opposing team. “You run your mouth, Miller, and you get in trouble,” he said, his Russian accent heavy.
I sighed overdramatically. “All the time.” I grinned shamelessly and held my arms out in a “What can you do?” gesture.
Mironov shoved at my chest and chuckled. “You shut your mouth sometimes.”
“Eh, I leave that up to my husband,” I teased as we skated into position, ready for the face-off again.
I flicked my gaze to the stands where I knew Spencer was sitting. Knowing he was watching lit a fire under me. I wanted to be the best for him. Knowing he was proud of me was my catnip.
I’d seen Keeley sitting nearby, too, holding her little one and cheering for us. Whose jersey was she wearing? I wanted her in my number—sixty-nine. Y’all, I wanted Hannah in it too. But for the moment, I had to be satisfied with having seen a wave from Keeley and Hannah clapping and bouncing on her mom’s legs, excited by all the color and movement in the barn.
Vancouver’s center got the jump on Gauthier in the face-off.
We wanted our shutout. There was no way we were letting them score on us—not when their game had already collapsed.
They skated fast, dekeing and throwing our defense off as they moved into scoring range. Minns and Mironov were flying, ice cutting in wide arcs and sticks swinging as they fought to protect Rune.
I cut across the ice, trying to intercept the Grizzlies’ pass, but I was a fraction of a second too late.
The Grizzlies tic-tac-toed with short, sharp wristers and saucer passes, playing keep-away from us. It was as if Vancouver’s asses had been lit on fire, our last goal motivating them to score and avoid the very thing we wanted.
Then it happened.
Out of nowhere.
Number eight passed the puck.
There was a clear shot on goal. Their forward took it.
I held my breath as I watched Rune shoot his arm out and catch the puck like it was moving at a snail’s pace, not a bullet.
He was on fire. This was his night.
“Hell yeah,” I hollered and dug hard into the tight turn behind goal. I shot out the other side, ready to take his pass.
Number eight hurtled forward, his stick held across his body in both hands.
I turned on a dime and skated to him. But I was skating through molasses. My feet wouldn’t move fast enough. My arms didn’t pump harder.
Horror flittered through me as number eight lifted his stick and collided with Rune. It was a blatant cross-check.
Rune’s head snapped back, his cage taking most of the force from the blunt impact. But number eight kept charging, his momentum pushing Rune off balance. His arms cartwheeled as he tried to regain his footing, but it was too late. He hit the ice hard, his head bouncing as he slid into the trapezoid.
Where was the whistle? The fucking penalty?
Number eight hovered over him, wearing a dangerous smile.
I saw red.
