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“Apparently Lawson and Sutton have something going on, and Beckett doesn’t like it,” Alex informs his sister.

Astrid looks back at me. “You and Sutton?”

“That’s not true,” I insist.

“It’s bullshit,” Beckett says.

“You have to be kidding,” Astrid says over both of us. “You’re fighting because you don’t want your sister dating Lawson?”

“I absolutely do not,” Beckett says.

“We’re not dating!” I say for anyone listening. Which seems to be exactly no one.

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Alex offers. “Maybe instead of just messing around with her, you should date her.”

“I’m not messing around with her!”

Dammit.

Sutton isn’t the type of woman you mess around with. You take a woman like Sutton out for ice cream. You hold her hand. You don’t kiss her until your fifth date.

You marry a woman like Sutton.

But I get why Beckett wouldn’t know that I understand that. We don’t exactly talk about our feelings.

“No!” Beckett tells Alex. “That would not be better.”

Okay, one of us talks about feeling pissed at the other one.

Astrid makes a low, almost growling sound. “Men are so stupid. Why do you think Sutton’s love life is your business?” she asks Beckett.

“It’s not that,” he says.

“That’s what it seems like,” Hudson says.

“Just not him.” He jabs a finger at me. “You know his reputation.”

I groan. I should have known.

My “reputation” is for being a hothead who likes to hit people.

And it’s not totally wrong.

The thing is that I only hit people who need to be hit. And I don’t exactly like it. And, importantly, it’s always been men who haven’t been given consequences for their actions before they cross my path. And my consequence for their actions is my fist in their face.

To be fair, it’s only happened four times in my life.

Well, off the ice, anyway.

I’m a hockey defenseman. I played in college, in the minors for two seasons, in the pros for a season, and now I’m back in Rebel for this crazy hockey league that is growing on me despite every misgiving I had. And there were many. But yes, I hit people on the ice. Often. I don’t count that.

Actual fighting? Punching another human? Making another man bleed on purpose? Four times. And I remember every single one.

It happened twice in high school. Once in the parking lot and once outside the football locker rooms.

I hit someone at a bar in college.

Then I beat the shit out of one of my pro hockey teammates.