The whistle blows, loud and final. I don’t skate off right away. I wait—blade dug into the ice, shoulders squared, jaw tight—as the guy I just leveled groans on the rink floor like someone stole his spine. I don’t gloat. Don’t need to. The scoreboard's lit, and my knuckles are already bruising nicely.

Blood slips from the corner of my mouth, thick and slow. It curves down my chin like a lazy insult, staining the white of my jersey and dripping onto my gloves. I drag the back of one hand across it, smear it over my lips—and smile anyway. It stings when I do. Just enough to make me grin harder.

The crowd behind the glass goes wild. Screaming. Girls losing their minds. A whole row of them leaning over the barrier, chanting my name. One of them shoves a phone at me like I’ll stop and sign it. Another cups her hands around her mouth and shouts something desperate. I don’t catch the words. Don’t care to.

Because I already saw her. 
Off to the side. Not in the seats. Not behind the glass. 
Just her. Arms folded. Leaning against the edge of the bench, watching with that narrowed look she gets when I bleed too much.

And damn, do I bleed a lot.

I skate past the noise, the pick-me vultures, the flash of lights and echo of voices. My eyes never leave hers.

She doesn’t blink when I stop in front of her. Doesn’t flinch when my blades kick up ice, coating her legs and boots. I think she knows I do it on purpose. Probably would’ve called me out if her mouth hadn’t gone slack the second she saw the blood on my lip.

“Hey.” My voice is low. Rough from yelling on the ice. “You see that hit?”

She looks like she wants to scold me. Tell me I’m reckless. That I can’t just drop a guy mid-game like I’m looking for a fight.

But she doesn’t get the chance.

I grab the edge of her scarf—soft, warm, still clinging to the scent of her shampoo—and tug her in. Her balance tips forward, chest brushing mine, and I catch her mouth with mine before she can speak.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s all teeth and grit and the copper taste of a split lip. I kiss her like I own her—like the whole damn rink is watching and they need to see exactly why none of those pick-me girls stand a chance.

Her breath catches when I deepen it. My fingers curl tighter in her scarf, and her hands land on my chest like she’s either steadying herself or trying not to completely melt. I’d let her fall, honestly. If it meant I got to pick her up.

When I pull away, she’s flushed. Her lips are red. Probably mine now.

I smirk—blood still coating my mouth, teeth slightly stained.

“Hockey’s violent,” I mutter. “Lucky I’m hotter.”

I don’t wait for her to recover. I slip a few of my rings from my fingers—heavy, warm, familiar—and press them into her palm.

“Hold onto these. And don’t drop ‘em. You’d have to marry me to get out of paying for replacements.”

And then I wink. Turn. Skate off.