Page 12 of Puck Me Harder
The Miami Ice Rays have the roughest, toughest reputation in the league. Half of their players have actually served time. Hockey is a physical game, but the Rays team doesn’t just play rough — they play dirty. It’s one thing to check someone, another to hit them so hard they go blind in one eye.
They make their way over, enjoying the same eyes that traced Sawyer’s Steve Rogers' ass. They look more like a biker gang than a team.
“Look at this, boys. A couple of lost Snowhawks. Where’s the rest of your flock, little birdies?” A leering face bends down, leaning on our table.
Sergei Balishnikoff leads the league in time in the penalty box. The sin bin, as I like to call it. He’s about as close to an actual criminal as exists in the league. I wouldn’t offer to piss on him if he were on fire, but Sawyer is a better guy than I am.
“Sergei. So nice to see you again,” Sawyer glances up and offers him a handshake.
Sergei ignores Sawyer, his beady eyes fixated solely on me.
“I didn’t know you knew this bozo, Sawyer,” I smile up at Sergei, unperturbed.
“We played together on the last Olympic team,” Sawyer volunteers.
He’s such a boy scout, he doesn’t even care that Sergei snubbed him.
“I‘ve heard about you, Mita,” Sergei says, leaning forward on his knuckles, getting in my face. “I look forward to breaking you, out on the ice.”
“Why wait?” I ask, smiling up at him. “We can settle it here.”
“Kai, no,” Sawyer says, reaching over to place a hand on my wrist.
“Listen to your captain, Mita. Be a good boy, or he’ll punish you,” Sergie says, leaving with a sneering laugh.
“Don’t let him provoke you. If you get suspended before the game, we’re going to be on thin ice out there,” Sawyer says.
I sigh.
“I know you’re right, cap. I just really, really want to hit him,” I give Sawyer a grin.
He doesn’t smile back, but his perfectly blue eyes twinkle.
“You are not the only one, I’m sure. But back to what we were talking about —” Sawyer starts to say something, but I’m distracted by movement behind him.
Not players, this time. Two girls winding their way through the packed bar, headed out to the patio. Headed towards us, with the Ice Rays in between. Sofia, the photographer, has a camera strap slung over one arm, carrying the expensive DSLR the way most women would wear a purse. And beside her, auburn hair catching the last dying rays of sunlight, is Dakota O’Connor.
Already, the Rays players are ogling them openly, catcalling, and making lewd remarks.
Like hell I’m about to let that stand.
“Fuck,” I grab the pitcher and drain it, wiping my mouth with the back of my arm as I stand. “I’m going to go get us another pitcher.”
“Kai, hey Kai—” Sawyer says, his voice rising urgently as I cross the patio towards the trapped girls.
Sofia looks good in a loose, flowing sundress. She’s built like a miniature Jessica Rabbit, and I can just see the beginning of a tattoo peaking out at her thigh.
But I only have eyes for Dakota.
She’s wearing a classic little black dress that hugs her curves like it’s painted on. It’s such a drastic difference from the unassuming jeans and t-shirt she was wearing earlier that I almost don’t recognize her. Especially with her hair down. Those crimson curls are startling against her creamy skin, and I can already see dozens of freckles, like God splattered her with a paintbrush just for me.
“Hey Sergei,” I give the girls a reassuring smile. “I don’t think they want to hang out with you. Why don’t you go back to your table and order another box of crayons to snack on?”
I step between them and the goons.
“Fuck off, Mita,” Sergie scowls, reaching past me to grab at Dakota.
The pitcher shatters on his face as I hit him with it.