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We're barely six minutes in when Declan and I end up battling for the puck along the boards in our defensive zone.

He's leaning into me.

I'm trying to pin the puck long enough for Mercer to come back and help.

Then he says, “You really think this ends well?”

I keep my eyes on the puck. “Not doing this right now.”

“Why? You had no problem doing it behind my back.”

“Dec.”

“You've been lying to me for months.”

I turn, trying to work the puck loose.

He shoves me hard against the boards.

Legal enough.

Then he adds, “She deserves better than some asshole who can't keep his hands off her.”

Something in me snaps.

I shove him back.

“Don't talk about her like that.”

He comes at me again. This time, the puck's already gone.

His gloves hit my chest.

Mine hit his.

“Then stop acting like she's another girl you can screw around with.”

I grab the front of his jersey. “She isn't.”

He shoves me.

I shove him back.

And then we're shoving and grappling, both of us too angry to let go. We've fought before. When we were kids, over hockey cards and stupid arguments that didn't matter.

Never like this.

Declan's forearm catches me across the jaw.

I drive a shoulder into him before the officials get between us.

The whistle is screaming. The crowd is on its feet.

And somewhere in the middle of it, I hear Jax yelling, “Bish! Enough!”

I let go.

Declan doesn't.