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Page 59 of Kiss of a Hellish Prince

BOOM!He careens into the boards and the ref immediately blows the whistle for a five-minute major penalty.

Fabulous.

Now, I’m back on my ass, on the other side of the ice this time, watching the game unfold from this little glass cell.

My hard-on isn’t going anywhere.

Neither is my irritation.

It takes a minute and forty seconds into the power play for St. Louis to score. Normally, that would be the end of my jail sentence—the opposing team scoring while you’re serving your penalty means you’re out early. But this is a major penalty, not a minor, and so I’m stuck for the entirety of the five minutes.

It’s not like I’m in a huge rush to get out of here anyway. As soon as I’m free, Coach will wave me to the bench opposite the penalty box and I’ll sit the rest of the game. He doesn’t tolerate boneheaded decisions like the one I made.

The action on the ice resumes. St. Louis scores again, ten seconds later. And just when I think it can’t get worse, the defense falls apart, a third goal slides past Torres, and Coach calls for time.

He switches Torres for Malone in goal and shoots me a look that says I’m going to be doing sprints for the rest of the season.

We’re down by five when I come out of the box. Before I’m even halfway across the ice, their enforcer, a grizzly veteran named Brzezinski with a mean right hook who’s booked more time in the penalty box than any other player in the league, skates toward me with his gloves off.

Good. A fight is exactly what I’m looking for.

It isn’t much of a fight at first. We circle around each other as the crowd goes apeshit. He jabs once, gets my shoulder. I jab back, get his shoulder.

“Come on, pussy. Fight me.” He waves me in. “Oh, you’re a big tough guy when it’s a kid, aren’t ya?”

“He should’ve moved out of my way.”

“He doesn’t have a rearview fuckin’ mirror in his helmet.” Lunging forward, he grabs my jersey, yanks me in, and delivers a paralyzing shot to my jaw.

Pain explodes in my face, but I’m not going down. I’m still thinking about those pale, clammy doctor hands crawling up Sloan’s thighs.

Thatbrings me back to life.

WHAM.I catch Brzezinski with an uppercut. Bust his lip up good, too, so his blood mingles with mine on the ice beneath our feet.

He hits me. I hit him.

He hits me again. I hit him again.

The pain is good, because it blots out the images. I’m not thinking of some asshat with a stethoscope around his neck kissing his way down Sloan’s flat belly. I’m not picturing a pile of her clothes at the side of his bed, that skirt layered on top like a tease.

I’m not dreaming of her.

And what a fucking reliefthatis. It’s the first time since she arrived on my doorstep that I can say it and mean it.

We exchange blows for a while until we’re both tired and hang onto each other. We’re roughed up by the time the refs finally separate us, but we’ll both be fine. It’s just part of the game.

It’s the medicine I needed.

When it’s over, I head straight to the locker room. No point in going to the bench—I’m done for the night. There’s going to be hell to pay in the third period, not that I’ll be allowed to play it.

It’s probably better that I don’t. I’m not in the right frame of mind to do more than stir up trouble that will make this loss all the more humiliating.

When the period ends, the team comes moping into the locker room. All I have to look forward to is an ass-chewing from Coach, but he just looks at me and shakes his head. “Should we even play the third? You guys want to pack it in and head home now? Just walk off the ice like the losers you are?”

I want to speak up. This ismyloss, not theirs.Myfault, not theirs. I gave away the go-ahead goal. I drew the major penalty that got us killed.

But then Coach just shrugs in disgust and disappears into his office.


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