Page 126 of Scoring Lessons

Anderson won the face-off against Holt without any issues and snapped the puck my way like second instinct. I’d done two strides, maybe three, and then a stick clipped mine, not enough to be called but enough to be intentional.

My jaw ticked in annoyance. I knew that move all too well.

When my eyes settled on Holt, a lazy grin pulled at his mouth, and he shot me a casual wink.

Asshole.

“Careful, Hayes,” he said with that smug grin plastered all over his face. “Wouldn’t want you getting sloppy.”

I shoved him against the boards. “Stay the hell away from me, Holt. I mean it.”

“Aw, shucks.” He chuckled under his breath.

My eye twitched. Everything he did was annoying the fuck out of me.

“What’s got you all worked up?”

I ignored him and pushed the play, drove wide, and dumped it deep when the lane closed. My chest felt too tight, like I was breathing through something thick.

And because things could always get worse, there was Holt again, all up in my space. He knew what he was doing. It was no secret he was a master at needling his opponents on the ice.

I knew it was part of the game, and if it had been any other player, I wouldn’t have batted an eye. But the guy was already on my shit list as it was.

I kept trying to ignore him the best I could as I sent the puck Anderson’s way, who was on his way to break out of the neutral zone.

He pushed forward, his stick and the puck becoming one as he avoided both of the Jaguars’ defense men then snapped the shot slow and far wide.

I felt like I could breathe a little easier when the horn blared. If I couldn’t beat the shit out of Holt like I was dying to, winning against him was the next best thing we needed to do for the sake of my sanity.

“How’s your sister these days, Anderson?” Holt asked as we were on our way to position ourselves for another face-off.

Anderson spat on the ice then shot him a glare.

“Is she seeing anyone these days?” he continued, his grin sleazy, like everything he was saying amused the fuck out of him. “Because”—he let out a low whistle—“boy do I miss that piece of ass.”

I got in his face in record time then gave him a slight push. “You think you’re funny saying shit like that?” Another slight push. “Have some fucking respect.”

“Or what?” he asked, almost bored, then he chuckled. “This is cute, though. You playing defense for her now?”

My hands tightened on my stick.

“She doesn’t need defending from you,” I shot back.

He barked out a laugh. “Oh, I know. Olivia’s real good at handling herself.”

I shoved him again—harder this time. Anger was flowing through my veins. I could feel my body overheating. “Say her name one more time.”

He met my stare dead-on, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Then he threw a casual shrug. “Whatever. That cold-hearted bitch isn’t worth all this hassle.”

Those words were what pushed my simmering rage over the edge like the flip of a switch.

My ears started ringing. My vision tunneled.

I dropped my stick and gloves before the thought even finished forming.

I grabbed him by his jersey and gave him a clean punch on the jaw.

He tried to grab me, but I shoved him back, driving him down onto the ice and going with him. The world narrowed to the sound of my own breathing and the dull thud of fist against helmet, against shoulder, against anything I could reach.