Dirty Pucker (Denver Bashers #2)

21. Del

Chapter 21

Del

I set up for puck drop at center ice, at the beginning of the second period. My entire body is vibrating. I feel like a caged animal aching to break out and go fucking crazy.

Vegas is two points ahead of us thanks to shitty call after shitty call by the officials.

I glare at the Bandits center I’m up against, determined to catch up.

The second the puck hits the ice, I hit it back to Theo, who takes off.

I speed ahead to cover him, but before I get too far, Owen catches up to me, getting in my way.

Vegas’s defense is all over Theo, so he passes back to me. I shove Owen, but I’m a second too late and miss the pass. One of the Vegas wingers scoops it up and takes off with it across the ice.

Our guys speed up to cover him, but he takes a shot at our net. Thankfully Blomdahl is all over it, stopping it with his glove.

The home crowd groans in disappointment as I holler, “Fuck yeah!” at Blomdahl.

We set up for the next puck drop.

“You think you could put in a good word for me with Ingrid?”

I twist around at the sound of Owen’s taunting voice.

“Fuck off,” I mutter.

He aims a taunting smirk at me. “Be a little less obvious that you’re into her, Richards.”

I skate off, but he follows me.

“Let me guess. You asked her out and she said no. Is that why you look so fucking pissed every time I talk to her?”

I ignore him and get into position. I’ve gotten used to guys trash-talking me during games. It comes with the territory of playing pro hockey. Guys say shit to throw you off and get under your skin. I do it too. I’ve said plenty of awful stuff to get into my opponent’s head.

“You’re so hard up for her, dude. It’s pathetic,” Owen taunts.

I grit my teeth. A million insults rest on my tongue. But I stay quiet.

He shoves my shoulder, but I don’t react, even though it’s tempting to throw down with him right now.

If this were just a few months ago, I wouldn’t hesitate to fight.

I glance over at the Bashers bench and see Coach Porter frowning at us as we set up for puck drop. He made it clear he doesn’t want any more dirty fights.

Owen sets up next to me and gets into position as we wait for the puck to hit the ice.

“I don’t blame you. Ingrid’s hot. And she’s gonna look even hotter on her knees, choking on my dick.”

I whip my head to look at him. “What the fuck did you just say?”

He smirks like he’s proud of himself for finally getting a reaction out of me.

“I bet she likes to be face fucked. Hard,” Owen says. “My fist in her hair, ramming my dick down her throat till she can’t breathe. Till her throat is sore. She tries to pull away, but I hold her down. She wants it rough, I can tell.”

He laughs in my face right as the puck hits the ice. He takes off after it.

It takes me a second to react, I’m so fucking pissed.

Fury boils in my gut like gasoline. That piece of shit. He’s joking about assaulting Ingrid…

The anger inside of me has seeped into every cell in my body. My muscles are tense and twitching, aching to beat this motherfucker to a pulp.

My gaze focuses as I track him on the ice. I pump my legs as hard as I can, ignoring the fire in my muscles.

Only one thought registers in my brain: make that fucker pay.

Owen trails his teammate with the puck as he heads for the Bashers net. Theo is all over him, so the Bandits player gets rid of the puck. It lands next to the boards, behind the net.

Owens makes a beeline for it. He’s facing the boards, his back to me.

I zero in on him, watching as he turns his head behind him to look around.

A half-second later, I slam into him as hard as I fucking can.

He goes flying head-first into the boards, landing like a limp doll on the ice.

The crowd lets out a collective gasp at the hit.

I stand over him as he groans, cradling his neck with his hand.

“Don’t you ever fucking talk about her like that again,” I mutter.

A Bandits player jumps me. He starts to punch me, but I’m ready for him and hit back. Soon players from both of our teams have joined in on the fight, which is happening right on top of Owen as he groans in pain on the ice.

The refs and linesmen pull us apart, yelling at us to back away from each other or else we’ll all get penalized or tossed out.

One of the refs grabs me by the jersey and pulls me toward the penalty box, where I knew I’d end up.

“That was a dirty hit, Richards,” he says. “You’re going in for a while for that one.”

I take my seat in the penalty box, ignoring all the Bandits fans banging on the glass, trying to get my attention. I spot a couple of young-looking guys in Bashers jerseys sitting nearby waving at me. One of them whips out his phone to take a photo of me.

I guzzle water and gaze out at the ice. A couple of Owen’s teammates help him up and guide him off the ice. He’s still cradling his neck with his hand.

I wait for the regret and shame to surface inside of me as I watch him, clearly injured. But it never comes.

Because I don’t feel bad about what I did. He made a fucked-up joke about sexually assaulting Ingrid.

I’ve said a lot of messed up things on the ice during games. But I’ve never joked about that. That’s a line I refuse to cross.

Owen is a piece of shit for saying that. And I don’t care if he’s injured. He fucking deserves it.

I see the refs huddled together and talking. I know I’m about to get kicked out of the game for that hit on Owen. And rightly so. It was dirty as fuck for me to come up behind him and slam into him.

But I don’t regret it. I’d do it again if I could.

The anger and adrenaline rolling through me from minutes ago settles. I let out a breath, feeling calmer.

The refs finally break apart and one of them heads to center ice, turns on his mic, and announces that I’ve been kicked out of the game for checking from behind.

I get pulled out of the box and led off the ice. I catch Coach Porter talking to one of the other refs. He glares at me, and I look away.

I’m in deep shit. But it’s worth it.