The bet was Dean’s idea.

Of course it was.

You should’ve known better the second Dean got that look on his face, the one that usually ends with you agreeing to something stupid because he keeps grinning at you like that.

You lost.

Which is why you’re now sitting in a packed Briar arena wearing Dean’s hockey jersey while his teammates bite back laughter at your unamusement.

Dean loves it. Completely, visibly loves it.

The second he spotted you during warmups, his entire face lit up with smug satisfaction. Now he keeps glancing toward the stands every chance he gets, smirking every time he catches you glaring back at him.

By the middle of the second period, it’s obvious enough that even the other team notices.

Dean’s against the boards during a play when one of the opposing players says something to him while nodding toward the crowd.

Toward you.

Dean’s expression changes immediately. The guy keeps talking anyway.

Gloves hit the ice before the refs can react properly.

The crowd erupts as Dean shoves him hard enough to send both of them crashing into the boards. Punches fly fast after that—messy, angry, fueled by way more than hockey. Teammates rush in. Refs drag people apart. Coach is already screaming from the bench.

Dean’s still trying to get another hit in when he’s pulled backward across the ice.

A few minutes later, Coach sends him off entirely.

You find Dean in the locker room afterward with damp hair, flushed skin, and a fresh split across his lip. Half his gear is scattered around him where he ripped it off.

He looks up the second the door opens.

Then his eyes land on the jersey you’re still wearing, and somehow, despite everything, he grins.