Page 89 of Dirty Fighter

I showered.

Brushed my teeth, thinking about the impish light in her eyes when she wound me up. The way they went soft before I kissed her. And the way they’d held with mine when I pushed inside her that first time.

Complied when fingers snapped an inch from my nose, and without looking up from his phone, Ben sighed, “Floss.”

But then I was whipping the clothes off the hangers, getting dressed and filling my duffel bag.

The bag currently strapped to my back as I deal with the buddy who is mistakenly getting in between me and my— and Rowan.

“Jason, you’re not walking out of here,” he says, treads squeaking.

“Who’s gonna stop me?” My breath is coming harder now, and that thing I rarely welcome, and only on the ice, is starting to rattle its cage.

Ben sees it too. All traces of that over-the-top guy are gone. “I am.”

Wrong answer, friend.

The corner of my mouth hooks, my voice taking a warning tone. “You… and what army?”

The lobby doors burst open behind him, and Wexler skids in, breathless and red-faced, Huska and Lattner close on his heels.

Clutching a couple bags from the hardware store, Wexler thrusts a roll of duct tape overhead and gasps, “We got it. We’re here!”

Huska’s doubled over, half waving a coil of climbing rope in front of him.

Lattner skids to a stop, reaching into the hockey bag swinging around his knees, and pulls out⁠—

“A shovel?” I demand, glaring at Boomer who does a double-take, his shoulders dropping in defeat.

“See what I’m dealing with here?” Then, rounding on the rookie, he jabs the air. “We’re saving his fucking career, not burying him in a shallow grave!”

“I didn’t know!” the kid croaks.

Boomer turns to me. “I love you, dude. And I feel for you. I do.” He cracks his neck all, Let’s go. “But I can’t let you get on that plane.”

“Love you too, man.” My arms are tensed, ready. “But if you don’t get out of my way, I’m going through you.”

If they cut me, I’ll play in the minors. I’ll coach fucking high school.

Because the only regret I can’t fucking live with is not fighting for Rowan while I still have the chance.

“I get it. You gotta try.” Boomer signals, and the guys start to move in.

My shoulders and chest heave with the deep breath I draw through my nose, my arms coming down in a shot as a snarl rips free.

All of them jump back, even Boomer. But only for a second, then⁠—

A throat clears.

“Mr. Stanvic,” the attendant from the front desk politely interjects.

“Sorry, Chuck. No need to call the cops. I’m fine.”

“No, oh… right, yes, good.” He gives me an apologetic look like maybe he wasn’t thinking about calling the authorities over my imminent assault. “Actually, sir, I just thought you should be aware, we have another unexpected visitor… Perhaps you and your friends would prefer privacy for this… throwdown?”

We all freeze except Wexler, who balls up the length of duct tape and stuffs it under his shirt.

“Camera or phone out?” I ask discreetly, more for my guys than for me. What I’m about to do, missing the start of training camp, is going to have consequences. Ones I can live with for myself. But no way should my teammates have to deal with the bad press and executive scrutiny just because they were trying to stop me.