“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” I smirk. “Chippy probably thought the tag would make you feel right at home.”
His eyes narrow. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what it means.” I lean in slightly, my voice low. “Are you really going to make me say it?”
“You don’t have the balls.”
“Maybe not,” I say, my smirk widening. “But at least I don’t need a microscope to find mine.”
His face flushes and when he replies, his voice drops to a hiss. “Fuck you. Go bake a cake, mama’s boy.”
The last part is so quiet I almost miss it.
But that’s the point. When it comes to chirping, family is off-limits. It’s an unspoken rule, and Nelson doesn’t want to be overheard breaking it.
My blood heats, outrage coursing through my veins. I drop into position, my fingers tightening around my stick.
“Alright, gentlemen. Let’s have a clean game,” the ref says, holding the puck out.
No chance. Not with the Flyers in the house.
I should be tracking the puck, but my eyes are locked on Nelson.
“You wanna go?” he hisses, sweat already dripping from his brow. “Let’s fuckin’ go.”
I’ve never been a fighter, but there’s something in the air tonight, and I’ll be damned if he’s going to get away with that chirp.
The puck hits the ice, and we surge forward, gloves and sticks clattering to the ice.
Nelson holds up his fists, but I don’t need to size him up. I’ve already got his number.
I charge straight at him, leading with a right hook. My knuckles crunch against his jaw, and a satisfying jolt of pain races up my arm.
Worth it.
The crowd noise surges when he retaliates with a blow to my ribs. The air rushes from my lungs, but I still manage to land another punch. It glances off his helmet, and Nelson loses his feet.
He spins away from me, but not before I grab a handful of his jersey.
No way am I going to let the prick slip away that easily.
He attempts to punch me in the face, but I duck under his arm. My knee goes down hard on the ice, the impact reverberating through my entire body. I rebound quickly, and when I come up, I find the front collar of his jersey.
Jackpot.
I fist the fabric in my left hand, blocking the worst of his strikes with my biceps.
Nelson’s left side is exposed, and I deliver a series of blows to his face and shoulder that send his helmet flying. My knuckles split and my biceps is on fire, but I don’t let up until he lowers his center of gravity, attempting to take me to the ice.
I can’t let that happen.
The team needs a win, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to let him best me in front of the woman I love.
We wrestle for control, and I’ve almost got him down when the linesmen rush in and pull us apart.
They drag me off Nelson, and I don’t resist as they lead me to the sin bin. McGinnis hands me my gloves as I pass by.
“You better win that face-off,” I tell him, knowing full well Coach will shift him to center while I’m in timeout.