Page 50 of These Wicked Hearts

“What?”

Her eyes narrow on me. “Uh-uh, don’t play dumb. What was that look?”

“There was no look.” I swallow hard, ignoring her.

“Uh-huh.” She smiles with a glint in her eyes. “The last time a guy told me there was nothing going on, he got married.”

I shake my head, trying to keep my eyes forward. I can’t help it, though. My eyes keep going to him.

Number twenty-eight with the name Sgarbossa on his jersey.

Atlas Sgarbossa.

I feel Vanessa’s eyes on me from time to time, but my eyes don’t leave him long enough to acknowledge it. I can’t help it. I can’t really believe it.

Naked men, traveling, and punching people.

My hockey boy.

So, hockey is chaos.

I haven’t decided if I like it or hate it. One thing I do know is it’s fucking loud. And that’s coming from a someone who’s spent the last five years surrounded by massive speakers. “What the fuck, ref!?” Vanessa yells through the glass with the other screaming fans. “He was clearly tripped!” She shakes her head, sitting down. “That was a tripping call,” she says to me.

“Clearly, I saw it.” I smirk as she shoves me.

I watch them skate. While I know nothing about hockey, what I do know is that Atlas is fast. Impossibly fast. Once he has the puck, it’s hard to catch him as he winds through the players. The agility with which he moves is insane.

Right now, he has the puck and is skating toward the end where the opposing goalie braces. Someone in a white jersey knocks into him, throwing him off balance and into the goalie, knocking them both into the goal post. Or sorry, the crease, as Vanessa keeps calling it.

A man comes out of nowhere, rushing toward the net as Atlas stands, looking like he’s about to help their goalie up. The other man knocks into him. They start fighting. Their gloves are thrown, and they’re punching back and forth. Atlas’s helmet gets knocked off and the other man’s falls off before they’re finally swarmed, teammates grabbing and yanking everyone back as the ref blows the whistle.

“What the fuck was that?”

I’m trying to see Atlas through the chaos. Finally, I see him getting pulled away by a ref who’s still shouting shit at the player who hit him. They’re yelling back and forth, but I think I see a hint of a smile on Atlas’s face.

A ref skates to the center line. “Oregon number sixty-two, two minutes for roughing. Number twenty-eight on the Vipers. Two minutes for roughing.” They’re both put in this glass box as our fans boo.

“What’s going on?”

“They’re in the penalty box for fighting.” She shrugs. “You don’t touch the goalie, specifically that goalie.” She laughs with light in her eyes. “Best protected goalie in the league.”

The man who threw punches at Atlas turns to their goalie as the ref tries to pull him away to lead him to the box. The man snatches his arm back then grabs the cage of the goalie’s helmet and talks to him. He nods and kisses the top.

“I don’t want to see that shit,” we hear a man above us say.

Vanessa wrenches around in her seat to face the man. “You want to see something gross, look in the fucking mirror.” She ignores whatever he says back, shaking her head. “Douchebag.”

“What’s going on?”

“They’re married.”

Wait . . . what the fuck? “Like . . . to each other?”

That wide smile returns as she nods. “Hell yeah. They got married this summer. I was Andre’s best woman.” She beams brighter. “Should have seen it. I looked so hot.”

“Is that, like, allowed?” She quirks her brow. “You know what I mean.” I don’t know hockey, but I do know sports. Last time I checked it was as toxic as ever. Another reason I’ve always hated it.

She shrugs. “It hasn’t been easy. They’re lucky they play for a more progressive team. Some people—” she says loudly, turning to direct it to the man behind us. “Can’t mind their fucking business.” She turns back around and sighs. “Hockey is still very White, very rich, and very conservative. In the pros especially. When I watch hockey, I always watch the women’s league, but I still show up for my friend.” She smiles.