Dirty Score, A Rough Riders Hockey Novel(44)

A Bruin slammed Andre into the half wall separating the bench from the rink. Sticks and limbs went flying. Rafe leaned back and covered his face with his forearm to protect his stitched eye, so he didn’t see whose punch missed Andre and hit Rafe in the shoulder.

Anger roared through Rafe, and he pushed to his feet. “What the fuck?”

Play had all but stopped while the Bruins’ defenseman bent Andre backward over the half wall. He had Andre’s jersey bunched in one hand, the other curled into a fist and hauled back. A few other players piled on the guys from behind and the momentum pushed Andre and the Bruin over the wall, still skirmishing. The Bruin pinned Andre to the ground and set up for that punch again.

Rafe launched his own hand just in time to catch the Flier’s fist in his palm, inches from Andre’s belligerent expression, and twisted the guy’s wrist. Not enough to damage him, just enough to make a point.

“Watch your back, fucker,” Rafe said, glaring the other guy down. “’Cause I’m bigger than him, I’m meaner than you, and I’m back on the ice in ninety seconds.”

Tate hauled the Bruin off Andre by the shoulder pads just as the refs closed in. To avoid a penalty, Tate acted like he was helping the Bruin up. “There you go, buddy. Got your feet under you now?”

The Bruin climbed back over the wall and glided to center ice.

Rafe offered his hand to Andre. His teammate took it as he got to his feet.

“Thanks,” Andre said with his thick Russian accent and that dorky smirk of his. “Now I not look like you when I go home.”

Andre wind milled his legs over the half wall and hit the ice. Play continued, and Rafe relaxed again, a little rattled by his show of aggression. That wasn’t who he was. He handled his own fights on the ice, but he didn’t get involved in others’.

“You are in fine form tonight, man.” Tate grinned from his seat beside Rafe on the bench, and the sight of his friend’s familiar ease loosened some of Rafe’s stress. But in the next moment, guilt wiped the ease away. A little distress leaked in too. Claiming Mia meant losing his lifelong friendship with Tate.

“Did you clear the air with Mia last night?” he asked. He and Tate had both been busy with workouts and training since they’d arrived at the rink, and Rafe hadn’t gotten a chance to ask.

“She was asleep when I got home,” Tate said. “I’ll talk to her tonight.”

Rafe wasn’t surprised. He was pretty sure she’d been asleep by the time he’d pulled the covers over her before he’d left her last night.

“What’d you do after Dad and I dropped you off?” Tate asked, that suspicious you-got-lucky-didn’t-you grin lifting his mouth. “Or should I ask who did you do?”

Alarm stung Rafe’s gut. Luckily—or not, depending on how he looked at it—the refs called a penalty on the Rough Riders, which meant he and Tate were going back in for the penalty kill. While the four stripes talked over the punishment, Rafe stuck one end of his mouth guard between his teeth as he stood and adjusted a glove, ignoring Tate’s question. His assumption wasn’t out of left field. Before Mia, Rafe had a pattern of ending a game night by picking up a hot puck bunny and expending his adrenaline horizontally.

“Whoever she is, she really does it for you, man,” Tate said, standing next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “You ought to think about holding on to her through the playoffs and into the Cup if we get there, because she sure as shit does you like nobody’s done you in a while.”

Rafe frowned at Tate. “What are you talking about?”

“You. This.” Tate gestured the length of Rafe. “You saw her again, didn’t you? The same chick you saw the night before you shot your hat trick?”

Rafe’s mouth dropped open to deny it, but he hesitated, wondering if he should just play it off as if he were seeing someone, just someone else.

Tate took his silence as affirmation and laughed. “I knew it. You haven’t had this much Savage in you in months. She really clears your head. You were a mess in the last few games. And we’re going to need all the Savage you can pull together to get to the Cup.”

Tate refocused on the ice and adjusted his helmet, and Rafe realized Tate knew him even better than he’d thought.

“You’ve got her, use her. That is your gift,” Tate said, his cynical side coming out. His view of women had changed one hundred and eighty degrees since Lisa had screwed him over. “And hell, it’s only for another couple weeks. Even you could stick with a woman that long. Only a couple of weeks.”