Page 3 of Ice Rebel

Sheepishly, I shifted toward him, acknowledging with a salute. Forgetting I had a game would be considered a mortal sin, but I needed one last look at my good luck charm.

Damn it. The girl had disappeared.

I skated backward, scanning the area, but there was no sign of her.

Let’s hope my angel continued shining down brightly. We needed a win.

The San Diego Blackhawks were tough. I’d give them that. They’d come to play and had almost whipped our asses on the ice.

However, we’d held our own even though their defense was on the money. I hated to admit it, but a solid reason we could take the lead was because of our new center, Jagger Black. He’d arrived late in the season, some trade deal that was none of my business, but had pissed just about everyone off.

He was here due to our former center’s injury in a horrific car accident, but the bastard was conceited as hell, and from day one we’d realized we didn’t like each other very much. Fine by me.

However, he was magic on the ice, his aggressive actions the reason for his nickname, ‘the Jag.’ He also reminded me of my brother Ford and how he handled his twig. If we wanted to win this fucking game, I’d need to step up to the plate. They didn’t call me the Rebel for nothing, but in my mind, I liked to think of myself as an enforcer.

The crowd was already going wild, yelling out plays and encouragement. I could swear I’d caught the girl on the Jumbotron more than once, but when I’d tried to find her in between periods, she’d been a ghost.

A hard crack dragged my mind back to where it should be and I funneled my attention back into the game. My job was a study in controlled momentum. I moved with purpose to defend the center.

Even if the guy pissed me off.

It was time to thwart an attack. In the zone, I anticipated the actions of the opposing center, using my stick to strip the puck away. Drake Miller was a brutal son of a bitch, his reputation as a ladies’ man barely matching his ridiculous tirades on social media.

For some reason, he had it out for me. Well, fuck him.

With my keen hearing, I enjoyed the roar of the crowd just before dropping my shoulder, seamlessly steering the attacker to the boards.

I’d been nice for once, curtailing my aggression. The dude wasn’t injured, just furious because if the Jag did his job, I’d just stolen the win.

Maybe resting on my laurels hadn’t been the best move. With no penalties, the game resumed and as soon as I was ready to pass the puck off to Jagger, Drake hauled ass toward me. What the fuck did he think he was doing? With no hesitation, he delivered an illegal check that pitched me into the boards, the bone-crunching maneuver creating a thunderous impact, the glass shuddering.

Before I could even push myself off the ice, Drake was in my face. In a blur of motion, we both shed our gloves, the leather landing softly on the scarred ice. We grabbed each other’s jerseys, knuckles white, and began to trade wild, thudding blows. The crowd erupted into a deafening, unified roar. It was a desperate, swinging grapple on slick blades, ending only when Drake caught a skate in a rut and tumbled backward, taking me down with him.

The wind knocked from my lungs, I fell forward onto the ice.

Chaos had already ensued, players grabbing sweaters, the leverage allowing brutal punches to be thrown. Somehow, I heard the roar of the crowd and sensed everyone was on their feet.

When linesmen finally pulled us apart, the referee already screaming obscenities for the disruption, Drake stared me down as if the shit had been my fault. He lunged toward me again, this time caught by members of his own team, one guy shoving him toward the penalty box. With my chest heaving and nursing bruised knuckles, I headed to the box as well so the ref could sort out the penalties.

In the end, I was allowed to return to play. Why I wouldn’t question, but the Blackhawks’ coach might. I sensed Miller throwing a fit as we regrouped, although Jagger was none too happy for the interruption. Game on.

The clock ticked down and Jagger had the puck, sweeping back and forth as he headed for the net. I also had to give the man credit where credit was due. He could fake it to make it with the best of them.

The opposing team’s goalie hadn’t stood a chance in hell, the puck flying into the center of the net.

And that’s how a game was won.

Along with a butterfly kiss from my guardian angel.

Jagger was rarely emotional, his expression always pinched, but at least this time after the win, he offered a high five as the rest of the team jumped all over each other like Neanderthals. This wasn’t a championship game, but damn it, they were acting like it was.

Their glee, while obnoxious, was catching and I found myself whooping and growling like some beast in the wild while lifting my stick. Yeah, we were real tough guys alright. That’s what the chicks loved, alpha dudes.

According to my sister. As of late, Samantha had taken it upon herself to offer me dating advice, insisting she was responsible for my other brother Beck hooking up with his girlfriend Sloane. Or maybe they were engaged. I couldn’t tolerate the lovey-dovey crap from either brother. They’d turned into something I didn’t recognize any longer.

Two whipped pups instead of big, strong alpha wolves.

Backing away from the motley crew, I scanned the arena one last time in hopes of catching sight of her. Nope. My luck had run out.