Reckless on Ice

Your Beckett

BECKETT LANGLEY

This is f*****g pathetic.

Even for her.

I rip open my duffel, grab my jersey, and toss it onto the bench like it personally pissed me off. My mind is a goddamn whirlwind, every thought circling back to The Playbook’s latest hit piece.

Ashley Brooke.

Running her mouth. Giving them a f*****g headline. Didn’t peg her for the kiss-and-tell type, but hey, people love to surprise you.

That thought? It almost makes me laugh.

Almost.

I should let it go. Be the bigger person. Take the high road. Except I don’t do high roads. I do scorch f*****g earth.

I yank my skates out, drop onto the bench, and shove my foot in—lace, yank, pull tighter. Still not enough. Maybe if I cut off circulation, I’ll stop thinking about tracking her down and reminding her exactly what she used to gag on.

And what the f**k was she doing at that victory party anyway?

Ashley Brooke—Miss I’m-Too-Good-for-This-s**t, the same girl who used to roll her eyes whenever I invited her out—suddenly loves hockey parties?

When the f**k did that change?

Because it sure as hell didn’t when she was with me.

"Yo, Langley," Iceman calls, slamming his locker shut. "For someone sitting at the top of every search bar right now, you look way too f*****g pleased with yourself."

I don’t look up—because if I do, I might put a teammate through a locker before practice even starts.

Tss. What a f*****g asshole.

I grab my stick, flip it once, catch it, smack the blade against the floor as I roll my wrist, testing the tape. "Yeah?" My voice is lazy, but my grip on the stick isn’t. "And for someone who barely makes the f*****g roster, you talk too much."

Iceman grins, kicking my bag like we’re playing. "Damn. That pissed, huh?"

Very pissed, actually.

Because as far as I’m concerned, I only kissed one mouth last night, and it sure as hell isn’t numb enough to be running its f*****g mouth today.

Ashley.

Fucking hell.

That girl. That goddamn girl.

I shove my helmet under my arm, adjust my wrist guard, flex my fingers like I’m not two seconds from putting my fist through something solid.

"Not pissed," I say, stretching my arms over my head, popping my shoulder. "Just wondering how long it’ll take before you’re gasping for air on the ice like the useless p***y you are."

Iceman barks out a laugh, but his fingers twitch when he reaches for his gloves.

Yeah. That’s what I thought.

And then he says it.

"Anyway, Ashley seriously needs to stop publishing this s**t about you."

My body goes still.

My jaw ticks. My fingers flex.

Ashley.

Ashley.

Ashley.

That name—her f*****g name—coming out of his mouth like he has any business saying it.

My brows furrow, sharp and immediate. "You know her?"

Iceman shrugs, like it’s not a f*****g loaded question. “ Who doesn’t know her? She’s f*****g hot.”

Fucking hot?

This useless f**k.

I turn my head, find him still lounging against the lockers, scrolling on his phone like he has no idea I’m about two seconds from breaking his nose just for knowing too much.

Instead, I clear my throat, flex my jaw, pry more—because there’s no f*****g way Iceman is complimenting her unless…

No. No, she’s not like that.

But Iceman has a reputation. He’s always running his mouth about girls drooling over him, about how easy it is, how they practically beg. And now he’s talking about Ashley.

My stomach twists, heat crawling up my neck. She wouldn’t. Would she?

I shift my stance, roll my shoulders, keep my tone lazy, easy. Lie through my f*****g teeth. "You ever talk to her?"

Iceman raises a brow, grinning like he knows exactly what I’m doing. Prick. “It depends,” he said, amusement flashing in his eyes. "Are you talking about dirty talk or just plain conversation?"

This motherfucker!

One second, I’m gripping my stick, pretending I don’t give a s**t. The next, I’ve got a fistful of his jersey, shoving him back—hard, fast, zero f*****g hesitation. He slams into the lockers with a metallic crack, his smirk vanishing like it was never there.

Good. Wipe that s**t off your face.

I step in, chest to chest, my stick pressing against his ribs. Hard. Hard enough that if I push just an inch deeper, he’ll f*****g feel it.

"What the f**k did you f*****g say, Iceshit!?”

His throat bobs, but he forces a chuckle. Dumb. The kind of dumb that gets you rearranging your own teeth in a parking lot. "Jesus, Langley. Touch a nerve?"

I should break his f*****g face.

I smirk instead. Slow. Dangerous. Predatory.

"You think she’d ever let a useless f**k like you touch her?" I lean in, my breath hitting his cheek, my grip on his jersey tightening. "You think she’d let you anywhere near her? You think you could handle her?"

I let the words sink in, watch the way his fingers twitch like he wants to swing but knows better.

Because he knows.

Ashley Brooke isn’t for guys like him.

She was mine.

And the next fucker who forgets that? I’ll remind them with my fist.

After a few seconds, I shove him away, forcing myself to take a step back. Damn it. My pulse is still f*****g hammering, hands twitching like they haven’t gotten their fill.

"Go."

Iceman hesitates. "Didn’t mean anything by it, Langley," he mutters, glancing at the others like he needs backup. Pathetic.

Didn’t mean anything? Tss. As if that makes a f*****g difference. As if I don’t already want to put my fist through the nearest wall just thinking about his hands anywhere near her.

Ashley Brooke—**my f*****g ex, my problem, my goddamn mistake to make—**shouldn’t even be a f*****g topic in this locker room.

I exhale, force my grip to unclench, drag my fingers down the locker like I need the grounding. "Just f*****g get out of my face," I mutter, shoving past him, grabbing my stick, jaw still f*****g locked.

I need to hit something. And if it’s not him, it sure as hell better be a puck.

The guys clear out, laughter and chatter fading, but the frustration? That s**t stays. Iceman’s words claw at my skull, looping, repeating, digging in like a f*****g splinter. Who doesn’t know her? She’s f*****g hot.

Damn it.

I yank my jersey over my head, grab my phone, flick through my contacts. Ashley.

Stupid f*****g idea.

I shove the phone back into my bag. Pull it out again. f**k it. I press call. I didn’t know it would be this f*****g aggravating. The ringing starts, and suddenly, I can’t sit still. My knee bounces, my fingers tap against my thigh, fast, impatient. Like I’m on the damn bench, waiting for my shift, except this is worse.

Last time I called her was when I told her it was over. Yeah, I was that asshole. The guy who didn’t stick around to explain, didn’t give her a reason, just walked the f**k away and left her to figure it out on her own.

So, if she wants to give me s**t in the papers, drag my name through every headline, make sure I see her words every damn week? Yeah. I get it.

But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna f*****g sit here and take it.

"Hello?"

Shit. Her voice still takes my breath away.

“Who is this?”

I swallow, grip tightening around my stick like it’s keeping me sane. "Ash…" My jaw locks, throat tight. f**k, why does this feel harder than it should? "It’s me."

"Who?"

I exhale, slow, sharp, force my knee to stop bouncing. Tss. Forget my voice, cupcake?

"It’s Beckett."

A pause. Then, smug as hell—"Beckett who?"

Oh, we’re doing this?

I inhale through my nose, exhale through clenched teeth, lean forward, elbows on my knees, phone pressed too tight against my ear.

I could play this game. Or I could end it.

"Your Beckett."

Mine, even if she f*****g hates it.