Page 182 of On the Breakaway

My stick slams against the ice as their bench erupts.

I don’t need to look at Wyatt to know exactly what his face looks like. That’s on me. One hundred percent on me.

As the teams line up for the next faceoff, I skate backward into position, my eyes flicking toward Avery against my will before I refocus them on the ice. When I do, I find Damon staring at me, his scowl turning into a smirk as he follows my sightline.

In my mind, it’s the same disgusting smile he’d give Avery when he planned to practically lock her in his apartment.

My skin heats as the puck drops. I’m not surprised when Damon and I get tangled up along the boards deep in our zone. I clear the puck, sending the play in the opposite direction.

For a second, it’s just him and me, shoulder to shoulder. He leans close enough that only I can hear him.

“You know,” he says casually, “I figured you’d realized the truth about her.”

My grip tightens on my stick.

“Shut up.”

He laughs. “She probably told you I’m the bad guy. As if she didn’t forget how to act, every single time I gave her freedom.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

The casualness of his tone has my stomach turning over.

Behind me, I hear Wyatt yell my name, but I don’t budge.

“Oh, c’mon, Shaw. You have to know that sluts like her aren’t worth the trouble. I wasted a year trying to teach her how to behave. Clearly, I should’ve used a stronger hand.”

Something inside me snaps instantly. The world narrows. My heartbeat becomes the only thing I can hear. I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. My gloves are off in a blur, the crack of my stick hitting the ice barely registering.

Damon’s eyes widen as I grab his jersey and drive him sideways, sending us crashing onto the ice. The whistle screams, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I register players yelling.

I don’t hear any of it.

All I see is Avery’s cellphone shattering on a wall behind her. I see Avery flinching when I tried to pay for her groceries. Avery expecting every argument to turn into a war. Avery walking into my house, convinced she needs armor.

Because of him.

I hit him before he can get his gloves off, and pain shoots up my arm. Then, I hit him again. We’re both swinging, but I manage to keep him pinned.

“You’re a piece of shit,” I seethe, hitting him again.

He spits out a mouthful of blood before sneaking in a punch against my jaw. My head jerks back, and he smiles wildly.

The grin sends me further over the edge, and I hit him again. And again.

Officials rush in, and I can feel people grabbing me from behind, but I keep swinging until I can’t reach him anymore. Even then, my body strains against the people holding me back, the need to lay him out again stronger than my common sense.

He doesn’t deserve to be on this fucking ice. He doesn’t deserve to be under the same roof as her.

His words rattle through my head, my hands tightening into fists again reflexively as I’m pulled across the ice.

New York’s trainer filters onto the ice, checking out Damon while he sits on the ice, blood dripping down his face.

I can’t remember the last time I got into a fight on the ice, let alone one that wasn’t based on a game move. I’m supposed to be the Captain. The example. I’m supposed to be better than this.

But all I can think as I watch Damon stand up, wiping blood onto his jersey as he skates to his bench, is that I should’ve hit him harder.

I can hear Coach yelling at me as they shove me through the door, but I have no clue what he’s saying. My hand rubs at my jaw, smearing the blood on my knuckles. My eyes catch Wyatt’s as he tosses my stick and gloves over the boards onto the bench, but he just shakes his head, body slumped with disappointment.