Page 91 of Secret Obsession
I shut the toy off again, and she sags in her seat.
There’s a shout, and I jump forward to see what’s happening better. Our goalie caught the puck, but one of the Knights slammed into him. The net is askew, and Steele and Finch are on the asshole opponent in a split second. They shove him away, but it seems like the Knight doesn’t really give a shit. Because he’s got Finch in his grip, and they’re exchanging heated words.
The whole arena is yelling for a fight. Steele glides around Finch and the Knight, his gaze granite. And then Finch tosses his gloves to the ice, and so does the other guy. The crowd loses their minds. Even I find myself yelling for Finch to beat his stupid ass.
Blue Jay skates toward me, stepping off the ice. He grabs a towel and tears his mask off, holding it to his bloody lip. Not sure how he managed that with a full helmet on, but whatever. We both watch Finch and the Knight exchange blows, until Finch somehow manages to get the Knight down.
“That’s our boy,” I yell, banging my fist on the glass.
Good for him.
He’ll definitely get fucking laid tonight.
Coach glares at me. “Whiteshaw,” he barks. “Get on the damn ice.”
I smirk at Blue Jay—he’s got the good nickname for stopping them from scoring on that last shot—and slide my mouth guard in, then shake my hair back and put on my helmet.
Grab the stick and go. No time to waste.
There’s going to be a penalty for us, no doubt. Maybe both sides. But being down a defenseman isn’t something Coach wants to leave for the second-best goalie on our team.
Even if he promised I wouldn’t play tonight.
I take the ice. My muscles are warm, my skates sharp. I’m ready.
Part of being a goalie is keeping yourself limber while waiting for the play to get into your section of the rink. Another part is keeping a line of sight on the fucking puck.
Like now, when the ref is ready to drop the puck to my left. A Knight is right in front of me, trying to block my view. I crouch and look between his legs and watch Knox get control over the puck and send it across toward Rodrigues. Who passes it to Greyson, and the play shifts toward the other end of the rink.
And just like that, it comes flying back.
“Come on, fucker,” I mutter.
A Knight skates through my crease, and I spare a moment to shove him out of the way. They’ve got the puck, and they’re coming in aggressive. My gaze follows it, my body loose. It’s more instinct than anything.
They shoot, and my arm snaps up, blocking it off the pad on my arm. My heart jumps, and adrenaline crashes through me. I grin around my mouth guard. The puck is reclaimed by Greyson, who skates behind the goal and is slammed into the wall. They both fall, and I guard the corner of the net.
The puck comes wheeling toward me, almost like it’s going to go right past me parallel to the goal, and I dive on it. I pull it into my body.
A Knight skids to a stop in front of me, and suddenly my face is showered in ice shavings.
A whistle blows—but fuck that. I jump up, but Knox beats me to it. He shoves the guy backward, shit-talking and punching him at the same time. More Knights and Hawks players flood in, trying to get in on the action.
I tear off my helmet and gloves, sending them scattering across the ice, and jump into the fray. Never mind that my pads make my body bulky and slow my normal body movements. It’s meant to help me guard the goal, not get in fucking fights. I get off a few hits on random players, not really caring where I’m swinging.
A lineman—one of the refs—grabs me by the back of my jersey and drags me backward. My knuckles ache. There are fights everywhere. Rodrigues is mouthing off, but he’s being hauled backward by Finch. Knox and the asshole that shot ice in my face are still yelling and trading blows around the ref who’s trying to separate them.
Steele and Maverick are fighting.
Big surprise.
I hide my smile.
“Off the ice, Whiteshaw,” the lineman snaps, pushing me.
I realize we’re at the door, and I step off the ice.
“What the fuck?” Coach roars. “Jesus Christ, Whiteshaw.Sit. Don’t fucking move.”
