As for us, we still needed tonight’s win.
Of course, they let Rozovsky take the faceoff against me.
“Your ass is mine tonight, Moreau,” he shouted in my face, droplets of his saliva hitting my skin. His face was twisted in anger and hate.
“Whatever turns you on,” I shot back calmly, which only seemed to make him even more incensed.
“Can they put another bed beside your bestie’s?”
“I’m sure the nurses can fit you in wherever you want. If you’re still able to speak, that is,” I said, my voice low and menacing. I actually saw the expression on his face fall for a second before the ref dropped the puck.
Whatever went through his mind, it was enough to distract him while I easily stole the puck.
Four goals.
By me.
And at least three attempts on my life.
All by Rozovsky of course.
The officials had given him two warnings and three penalties.
It still didn’t make one damn bit of difference.
Any normal player would have thrown down two periods ago.
But I had an agenda.
Number one that was to not piss off the woman who’d just barely let me back in her bed.
It had been several cold weeks without Geneviève, and I had no desire to screw that up.
She’d made it abundantly clear she did not want me fighting this douchecanoe tonight.
If I gave into his bullshit, I’d risk losing her again.
Not to mention, I liked my head on my shoulders.
Second on that agenda was winning tonight’s game. If I did give in and throw down with this ass, that might mean I’d be spending the rest of the game in the penalty box.
Or worse.
So, I needed to make sure we had a good lead on the scoreboard.
And thirdly, not too many miles away, my friend was lying in a hospital bed.
Hooked up to more machines than I could count.
And he was there because of the prick who wouldn’t leave my ass alone tonight.
To say that I felt a need to repay Rozovsky for the shit he pulled with Trey—was an understatement.
I felt a burning, boiling, rage for the asshole.
I’d never in my life wanted to bust someone’s face in like I did right now.
The only problem?