Delayed Penalty (Crossing the Line, #1)(16)

To prove my point, I ended up dropping gloves with one of their left wingmen, Alex Lefler, which couldn't have been a worse match up, but I had to make a point.

I ended up breaking his cheekbone and jaw. I never wanted to hurt him like that, but I wasn't going to let them treat Leo that way either. They took liberties with our best players, and they were held accountable. That was just the type of guy I was.

Leo passed me the puck as soon as I got on the ice after the major for fighting. "Work 'em low!" Remy shouted to my right.

From center ice, I read the goalie. You had to get him to move, and once he got down, you needed to get the puck up, and I could do that when needed, over and over again. If they weren't sliding in or we needed to get creative, I did that. Keading was all over me, so I passed to Leo and then Remy, and I was freed up in position. Moving the puck, I swept around the back of the net, flipped it up, and stuffed in the top side to tie the game.

We were up by one, leading into the third period, when shit went south. It was a good, fast game that night, and it seemed the linesmen decided they would stop looking. That was when they started with the shitty calls. I got called for roughing when I shoved their center for mouthing off. Then, when he kept it up, I nailed him against the boards a little rougher than necessary, and he was out revenge after that.

Remy and I both tried to convince the coach to let us return the gestures, but he knew where they were going with it. The answer was always a distinct, "No! Play the f*cking game. They push, you push right back. Defend that blue line, boys!"

But he was playing me, too. He used me to draw a penalty and create a power play. He would skate up to me, chirp, and start shit. I'd drop my gloves, and he'd cover up like a f*cking *. I'd be slapped with a penalty because he wasn't allowed to fight me.

So I'd sit in the box while they worked up the ice.

I had just come onto the ice, watching Remy set up the play off the blue line, when Keading came out of nowhere and slammed me so hard into the boards the glass shattered. He wasn't gonna fight me, but f*ck if he wasn't going to get me when I wasn't looking

A little dazed, I sat on the bench wondering what day it was.

"Fuck, Mase, did you let him come in your mouth, too? Because he f*cked you," Leo said, shaking his head as we entered the locker room after losing to the Predators by one point.

Leo was always such a nasty f*cker, but I didn't care. I took such a rock on that play, I saw double the next day.

We ended up winning against Nashville again.

The thrill of the victory brought excitement with it, and I was finally feeling like I could breathe and not think of Ami.

Leaving with women was always easy when you were underage and in a bar full of the Chicago Blackhawks. All I had to do was make conversation, smile, and they were leaving with me. I didn't take many back to my place. It was never good if they found out where you lived.

Back at her place, my mind was still on the game, the excitement of the win, and the girl unzipping my pants. We were naked pretty quick, still up against her door, when she unwrapped her legs, stood, and led me to her room.

Hovering over the girl, ready for action, that was when the feeling of dread, anxiety, hopelessness, and anger came back. My vision went gray around the edges. It was everything I could do not to gasp at the memory of my bloody clothes on the floor and then her body in the snow…f*ck.

This isn't happening. When did I turn into this guy?

I closed my eyes just to try and breathe, but it was like there was no air in the room. I started hyperventilating because I was thinking of Ami and what she went through. My mind went straight to what Ami must have seen, felt, and heard while she was brutally attacked. Could she see him hovering over her like this? I stared at the girl underneath me, her blonde flowing hair wrapped around my hand, and I thought it could have been like that for Ami. Fuck.

With quick, short breaths, I pulled away from the girl, but my heart wouldn't calm down. "I'm sorry. I can't."

I felt like shit. I felt like an *. I wanted to shake myself and say, "Get yourself together," but I couldn't.

She looked up at me with tears in her eyes. She wanted this. Being with me like this was probably something she would remember long after I forgot her name. I knew that; I was used to that.

But now things had changed.

"It's not you, honey," I said, trying to convey that it wasn't her at all. This was my own shit. I swallowed, my hands shaking as another image plagued me, the one of her when I left the hospital the other night. I shook my head and cleared my throat. "I need to get out of here."

Sitting back on my heels, I moved away, reaching for my clothes. When I got to the door, I hesitated. I didn't want this girl thinking it was something she did. Running my hands through my hair, I gave her a smile and wrote my number on a piece of mail she had on the counter. "Maybe some other time."

As soon as I got outside, I felt physically ill again, and the girl I left on the bed hadn't helped. Any other time I knew she would have been exactly what I needed after the win, and maybe even the next morning. But she reminded me too much of Ami. She had blonde hair and a tiny body, and I lost it. I had to leave.

My problem was, I kept thinking about what she went through, what she felt, over and over again. Would she would remember? She was in my zone whether I wanted to admit it or not.