He slams his fist into the steering wheel.

Fuck.

The pain shoots up his arm—knuckles already bruised from the fight, taped up by the trainer but still throbbing—and it does nothing. Doesn't help. Doesn't make it better.

He's still shaking.

His jaw hurts. Split lip, probably. He can taste blood every time he swallows. The cut above his eyebrow is taped shut but it's pulling, stinging with every small movement. His jersey's back in the locker room somewhere, probably blood-stained. He didn't shower. Just threw on a hoodie, grabbed his keys, walked out before Dominic could finish whatever he was saying and before he did something worse.

Before he actually hurt someone.

He breathes hard through his nose. Grips the steering wheel until the leather creaks.

Calm down. Jävla—calm the fuck down.

He can't.

Because he can still hear it. Still hear him.

That piece of shit Dallas defenseman. Number 24. Lukas doesn't even remember his name. Doesn't care. All he remembers is the voice—loud, deliberate, timed perfectly during a stoppage in play when the mics were too far and the refs weren't close enough.

"Heard you're fucking the Chronicle reporter. That true, Gorasson? She like 'em young and stupid?"

He didn't respond. Skated away. Kept his head down.

"What, she doing a story on you? 'Swedish Kid Can't Keep It in His Pants?' Bet that's a good headline."

Still didn't respond.

"She's what, thirty? Thirty-one? Bet she's just slumming it. You know that, right? You're just a—"

He dropped his gloves.

Doesn't even remember deciding to do it. Just—gone. Vision red. Fists flying before his brain caught up.

He got him good. Twice in the jaw before the refs pulled them apart. Number 24 got him back—split his lip, caught him above the eye—but Lukas doesn't give a shit about that.

He wanted to destroy him.

Would've, if Mikhail hadn't grabbed him by the jersey and hauled him back with that iron grip of his. Would've kept swinging until they threw him out of the game, out of the building, into the street—he didn't care.

Nobody talks about her like that.

Nobody.

He's still sitting here.

Engine off. Windows up. Breathing like he just skated a triple overtime shift.

The parking garage is mostly empty now. Staff vehicles. A few stragglers. Media cars.

Her car.

She's still inside. Finishing up. Doing her job, being professional, completely unaware that he's out here losing his mind in the dark.

Because that's what she does. That's who she is.

And some asshole who doesn't matter made it into something cheap, something gross, and Lukas cannot get the words out of his head.

He checks his phone. No texts yet. She probably doesn't know what started it. Probably just saw the fight and thought it was standard hockey bullshit—two guys going at it, happens every night.

But it wasn't.

It was about her.

He knows what it is. This thing crawling under his skin, this low simmering heat that hasn't left since the moment those words came out of that guy's mouth.

Possessiveness.

Raw and ugly and completely irrational and he knows it.

She's his. In his head, in his chest, she is his. And hearing someone reduce her to a rumor, to a punchline, to some older woman collecting a younger guy like he's nothing—it made him want to burn the entire arena down.

He slams his fist into the wheel again.

Stop. You'll break something.

He doesn't care.