Crosschecking Hate

The crowd roared loud enough to shake the ice beneath my skates. That was the only thing I liked about Friday nights. Not the cameras. Not the interviews. Not the girls throwing themselves at me after games because I played for the most brutal hockey team in the college league. Just the noise. Because noise drowned everything else out. I slammed another player into the boards hard enough to make the crowd lose their minds. The whistle blew immediately after. Penalty. Again. Coach screamed my name from the bench, but I ignored him, skating toward the box with blood pounding hot under my skin. Then I saw her. Standing near the tunnel entrance with her arms crossed like she owned the damn arena. Dark hair. Brown eyes sharp enough to cut skin. Tiny silver hoop in her nose. Gray hoodie too big for her body. And she was glaring at me. Not nervous. Not impressed. Pissed. I smirked. Most girls looked at me like I was a fantasy. She looked at me like she wanted to commit murder. Interesting. I dropped onto the bench inside the penalty box and held her stare. “What?” I mouthed. Her eyes narrowed. Then she flipped me off. The guy beside her nearly choked. I laughed for the first time all week. After the game, I headed down the concrete hallway toward the locker rooms, helmet tucked under my arm. Sweat still clung to my neck. And there she was again. Blocking my path. “You play dirty,” she snapped. Up close, she was even prettier angry. “That so?” “You injured my brother.” My smile disappeared. “What number?” “Seventeen.” I remembered him immediately. Fast winger. Mouthy. Should’ve kept his head up. “He got in my way.” “You slammed him into the glass on purpose.” “Welcome to hockey, sweetheart.” Her jaw clenched. “I hate you.” The words should’ve rolled off me. Instead, they hit somewhere strange. Because she meant them. Most people were scared of me. She wasn’t. I stepped closer. Too close. “You should,” I said quietly. Her breath caught just slightly. There it was. Not fear. Tension. Dangerous tension. She noticed it too because she instantly shoved my chest. “Don’t touch me.” I grabbed her wrist before she could walk away. Fast. Possessive. Her eyes widened. Mine dropped to her lips. Big mistake. “Let go,” she whispered. But she didn’t pull away. The hallway suddenly felt too hot. Too quiet. “You always this dramatic?” I asked. “You always this arrogant?” “Yeah.” “And girls actually like you?” “They usually beg for my attention.” She rolled her eyes hard. “I’d rather walk barefoot through glass.” I grinned slowly. “There she is.” “What?” “The attitude.” Her cheeks flushed with anger. Or something else. I didn’t know why I enjoyed provoking her so much already. But I did. And I definitely shouldn’t have. Because girls like her didn’t survive around guys like me. Not without getting ruined.