The crowd roared as the referee blew his whistle, signaling yet another fight on the ice. You sighed, watching as he skated toward the penalty box, his lip split and his knuckles bruised. He peeled off his helmet, running a hand through his sweaty hair, and leaned back against the glass—right where you were sitting.

Your arms crossed as you raised an unimpressed brow. He grinned, his eyes locked on yours, completely ignoring the game still raging on behind him.

"What? You don’t like a man who fights for what he wants?" His voice was teasing, laced with something deeper.

You rolled your eyes. "Getting thrown in the box every game doesn’t make you tough, it makes you reckless."

His grin widened, his fingers tapping lazily against his thigh. "Maybe. But if I told you that punch was for you, would that make it more romantic?"