No way was that an accident. And no way was Henny letting it slide.
Merkle tried to pass, but Dunn swooped in and stole the puck, shooting it over to Roscoe. With the Tempest on top of the game again, Henny turned his attention back to Merkle, tracking him like a fucking shadow. That asshole wasn’t getting anywhere near his boys again.
Let him fucking try it.
Dude must’ve been psychic, because suddenly he pivoted sharply, breaking away from Henny and heading right for Dunn. Right for the puck.
Oh, fuck this guy.
Henny charged after him, adrenaline taking over, pushing him harder and faster, beyond all reason. Soon as he got in range, he lunged, reaching out for something—anything—to slow the guy down.
Bad idea. He’d grabbed Merkle’s stick without even thinking. Even before the ref blew the whistle, Henny knew he’d just fucked himself.
Sonofabitch.
“Buffalo penalty, nineteen,” the ref announced. “Kyle Henderson. Holding the stick. Two minutes.”
Henny hopped into the penalty box and grabbed a bottle of water, ignoring the boos of the crowd and the burn of shame in his gut. It was his third penalty of the night, and a stupid-ass one at that. He was playing like a fucking amateur. Gallagher’s hair was turning grayer by the minute.
He was in it up to his eyeballs.
The only saving grace was that Bex wasn’t here to see this shit. Of course, that fact was also eating Henny alive. Every time he looked at her regular seat behind the glass, all he saw was the empty space where his girl was supposed to be.
The girl who’d said no.
The girl who was slipping away before he’d even had a chance to really hold on to her. To make it count.
Henny’s gut twisted. He hated the way they’d left things today. Hated that he’d made her feel bad, as if he thought she couldn’t handle her own finances. Hated even more that she’d tried to poke holes in all his bullshit excuses, shined the light right through them.
No wonder she said no.
What was she supposed to think? That he was a strong man? That he’d always be there for her? Henny couldn’t even be there for himself. His career was falling apart right before his eyes, but it was like a damn out-of-body experience: he could see it happening, feel it slipping away with every bad game, every shitty practice, every fight he got drawn into. Yet he felt absolutely powerless to do anything about it.
Maybe he really was broken. Fucked up beyond repair. Maybe that’s why his parents had bailed on him as a kid, leaving Bex and her mom to pick up the pieces.
And maybe Bex had finally figured out his big secret—that for all his jokes, all his money, all his kisses, all the ways he’d tried to love her as a friend and beyond, maybe Henny just wasn’t worth the risk.
He gripped his stick and sucked in an icy breath, fighting back the doubts that threatened to suck him under. He had a game to finish. A team to support. A Phantom to fucking nail to the wall.
The clock ran out on his penalty, and Henny was out of the box like a shot fired, zooming right into the action, right for his man.
Don’t. He’s not worth it, you dumb fuck.
At the last possible second, Henny pulled back, reigning himself in. Blowing up right now would only put the guys at risk, and it certainly wasn’t going to fix his issues with Bex. He needed to keep a cool head, buy Dunn and Roscoe some more time to make the goal.
The move paid off. With Henny keeping the heat on Merkle, Roscoe broke away, skating right into the zone and tapping that baby into the net like he was born to do it. Three-two. Tempest was finally ahead.
Henny raised his arm to cheer for his man, but before he could even make eye contact with Roscoe, he was on his back, right on the ice.
Merkle had taken him down, late as fuck, hard as hell, and in no way was it even remotely kosher. The two of them were tangled up on the ice, Merkle on top, pinning him down, his stick pressed across Henny’s chest.
“Fuck’s your problem?” Henny shoved him off and jumped back up to his feet, gripping his stick hard, panting like a cornered animal.
Merkle was up again, too, already tearing off his gloves. “Douche bag,” he spat. “Your old lady fucking someone else? You sure look like a guy who’s only getting leftovers.”
Henny dropped his stick, yanked off his gloves and helmet. Grabbing a fistful of jersey, he got right in Merkle’s face, so close he could practically smell what the asshole ate for dinner. “You wanna say that again, dickless?”
“Fuck you.”
“Newsflash.” He shoved Merkle into the boards, forearm pressed against the guy’s throat. “I’m not the one getting fucked tonight, pal.”
His vision swam with red, all that “keep a cool head” shit zipping right out the window. Henny was ready to throw the first punch. Ready to sign his own walking papers. He was done. Done with this bullshit league, working his ass off, taking shit from guys like this, getting spanked by management any time he tried to defend himself or his boys.
If playing by the rules meant bending over and taking it in the ass any time the refs fell asleep on the job, then Henny was done with this entire fucking game.
But this time, he didn’t have to throw down first. Merkle did the honors.
Henny took the hit hard, Merkle’s fist like a bat to the face. His head snapped back, mouth filling with blood. Roscoe and Dunn were at his side in a heartbeat, but not before Merkle picked up his stick, stuck it right in Henny’s grill.
Everything else was a blur, a series of flashes Henny barely had time to register: Dunn coming down on Merkle like white on ice, punching the guy square in the mouth. Roscoe hauling Henny out of Merkle’s clutches. A sea of Phantom white-and-silver surging forward, the other Tempest guys piling in after them.
Henny couldn’t even tell who was doing the punching, who was trying to break it up, who was shouting—only that the whole mess had turned into a fucking gong show of epic proportions.
Couldn’t have been more than a minute or two before the refs and team docs finally made it through the knot, trying to separate the teams while Roscoe dragged Henny toward the net, out of the fray.
“Dude. You okay?” Roscoe took Henny’s head in his hands, looking over his face. “You hit your head?”
“No. Just ate a little stick.” Henny spit out a mouthful of blood, checking that he still had all his teeth. One in the back was loose, but he’d live. More blood trickled down from a gash over his eyebrow, warm and sticky, and he was pretty sure he’d fucked up his hand, too. But he was beyond feeling pain. “Thanks for the backup. I’m good.”
Roscoe clapped him on the shoulder. “Wasn’t your fault.”
“Debatable.”
“Sounds like the refs are calling Quebec for roughing and unsportsmanlike conduct.”
“And Gallagher’s calling for a line change.” Henny nodded at the bench, where Gallagher fumed. Quebec may have taken the penalty call, but Henny was in for a world-class reaming.
“Don’t sweat it. We’re up by one. Fahey and the boys’ll bring it home.” Roscoe put his arm around Henny’s shoulders, leading him off the ice.
“You guys good?” Dunn asked, falling in next to them. Narrowing his eyes at Henny, he said, “That rock-hard bucket of yours okay?”
Henny knocked on his head. “Fan-fucking-tastic.”
“Jesus fuck, we need a group hug,” Roscoe said.
“More like group therapy.” Dunn glared at Henny, but then looked away, hopping up into the box.
Sitting down on the players’ bench, Henny almost wished Dunn would take a swing at him. Beat some sense into his stupid ass. He had every right to do it, but of course he wouldn’t. End of the day, Dunn was a good fucking guy, and he cared about his team.
It was a hell of a lot more than Henny could say about himself.
Six minutes left on the clock. Tempest was up by one. Phantom was getting tired. Roscoe was right—Fahey and the boys could wrap this up, no problem. Far
as the team was concerned, yeah, they were good.
But the message in Gallagher’s eyes was clear. Henny should’ve walked away from that fight long before it even started. They got fucking lucky with the penalty call—it was that simple. And he’d played a shit game tonight, totally distracted, totally unprofessional, letting his team do all the heavy lifting while he skated around with his head up his ass.
What happened to the stone-cold pro who could play his way through any personal tragedy? Who could find a way to channel all the bad shit into raw, unadulterated power on the ice? Who could find his purpose out there, no matter who came at him?
“Henderson.” Gallagher glanced at his face, the disgust clear in his eyes. “Go have Doctor Langford take a look at that cut.”
Henny swiped the back of his hand across his brow. He was still bleeding. “You want me back here after, or should—”
“No.” Gallagher turned his attention back to the game, watching Fahey and the second-line guys take their positions on the ice. “I want you the fuck out of my sight.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Henny couldn’t fucking breathe.
He sat on the toilet lid in the bathroom at Big Laurie’s, trying not to flinch while Bex cleaned his cuts.
The pain had returned full force, but he could deal with that. Hell, over the course of his career he’d probably left his body weight in blood out on the ice. But being this close to Bex without touching her—close enough that the fine hairs on her arms tickled his face, the scent of her skin making him ache? It was killing him, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. One move, and she’d probably deck him.
“I can’t believe you didn’t let the team doc patch you up,” she said.
“I needed to get out of there, Bex.”
“Yeah? Smart call on your part.” She poured half a bottle of alcohol onto a fresh cotton ball and jammed it into the gash.
“Damn it, woman!” He jolted at the sting, his eyes watering. “Take it easy!”
“Hold still.”
Henny closed his eyes, dizzy and overwhelmed in a way that had nothing to do with his messed up face. It was Bex, all Bex. Ever since he’d left her at his house today, all he’d wanted to do was come back to her, take her into his arms, fix what he’d fucked up.
But now that he was here with her, close enough to touch, to taste, he didn’t know what the fuck to say to make it okay between them.
“You are a red-hot mess,” she said, exasperated. Her breath was soft and warm on his cheeks as she finished taping up the cuts. “Are you even capable of behaving yourself anymore?”
“Not where you’re concerned.”
He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but fuck it. He was already in a world of shit with his team and managers. Why not pile it on a little thicker? It was the truth, anyway.
For so many years, their friendship had cruised along without so much as a hiccup. Now, no matter how hard he tried, Henny kept saying the wrong thing. Doing the wrong thing. Being the wrong thing.
But instead of scolding him again, Bex only frowned. She cupped his chin in her palm, running her thumb over his lower lip, her touch so soft and gentle he shivered. The anger vanished suddenly from her eyes, replaced by worry. By sadness. By something else he thought he recognized but didn’t want to name, because he was too fucking scared to be wrong again.
“Oh, Hen. This isn’t about me,” she said softly. “You have to know that.”
Henny grabbed her wrist, wrapping his fingers around it, bringing her palm to his lips. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
Ignoring this, she pulled her hand away and reached up to put the Band-Aids back in the cabinet above the toilet. Her shirt rode up, exposing her taut belly, the bottom edge of her rib cage, all the curves he’d mapped with his tongue a hundred times since they’d started down this road. All he had to do was lean forward, press his lips to her perfect flesh…
She stood before him again, crossing her arms over her chest, all the anger and disappointment rushing back into her eyes. “So are we going to talk about what happened out there tonight, or just keep pretending that everything’s even remotely okay with you?”
Henny leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “You saw what happened. Quebec started some shit. I finished it. Lucky for me, Merkle got nailed for starting the fight, so even though Gallagher’s gonna rake me over the coals tomorrow, I’m in the clear with the league. And now I’m sitting on your toilet getting a lecture I really don’t need while you torture me with alcohol and Band-Aids.”
“Were you always such a man-baby, or is this some kind of midlife crisis? Because if that’s what’s going on here, go get yourself a convertible and a younger woman and get over it.”
“Did you forget what happened earlier? What you said to me?” Henny sat up straight again, shoving his hand through his hair like a total fucking idiot—he snagged the bandage, tearing it clean off. “Sonofa—”
“Jesus, Henny.” She reached for the box of bandages again. “Hold still. You’re bleeding. Again.”
“Forget it. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. You probably need stitches.”
“Just use more Band-Aids.”
Bex clenched her jaw, but did as he asked, blotting away the blood and then shaking out a few extra bandages from the box. Henny closed his eyes, losing himself in a memory… tenth grade, maybe? Some schoolyard bullshit, couple of dude-bro assholes trying to intimidate Bex and her friend outside the art room. Henny rolled up on the scene, saw the fear in Bex’s eyes as one of the guys cornered her. Three minutes later, dudes were on the ground. Henny got a black eye, a gash on his chin, and two weeks of detention, but he told the teacher he’d do it again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping his girl safe.
They’d walked home together, back to Laurie’s house. Henny sat on the toilet seat in the upstairs bathroom, Bex doing her best to patch him up, just like now.
He still had the scar on his chin.
“Are you… is that a smile?” Bex asked. “What is so funny, Kyle Henderson?”
Henny opened his eyes, relieved to see her smiling back at him. “Just thinking about the time I beat down those two guys outside the art room.”
Bex laughed. “Oh, boy. Well, not that I wasn’t grateful, but there was only one guy. And I’m pretty sure he wasn’t the one who got beat.”
“What? I laid those dickholes out. I remember them curled up on the pavement, crying like little bitches. Kellerman gave me detention.”
“Um, sorry to burst your little man-bubble, but you were the one curled up on the pavement. Brock Lipowicz took off right after he kicked your ass.”
“Okay, that is so not how it went down. But… Damn. We got bested by a dude named Brock Lipowicz?” Henny shook his head in disgust. “We should Facebook that motherfucker and see what he’s up to now.”
“I can probably guess.” Bex blew out a breath. “That was what, fifteen years ago? Sixteen?”
Henny smiled, bigger this time. So big it hurt his aching jaw. “Guess you’ve been fixing me up a long time.”
“We’ve been fixing each other up a long time.” Bex’s smile faded, her shoulders slumping, the lightness gone once again. “You can’t throw off your whole game every time we have an argument, Hen. And technically, that was just a misunderstanding.”
“I asked you to move in with me like a total tool, and you shot me down. Not much room for interpre—ouch!”
“Sorry.” Bex winced. “I need to tape this tighter. Hang on.” She finished up, smoothing her fingers over the bandages to make sure it would hold. “I didn’t shoot you down. I said I needed time. Or at least I tried to say it. You left before we could finish the conversation. You know, like adults.”
Henny sighed. She was right. That’s exactly what he’d done. It’s what he always did when someone hurt him—even if it wasn’t her fault. Thing was, he hadn’t been hurt in years. He’d made damn sure of that, keeping hims
elf at arm’s length, never letting anyone too close. Other than Bex, Dunn and Roscoe were the only ones who’d even gotten in at all. It’d been so long since he’d put his heart out there, he’d damn near forgotten what rejection felt like.
He didn’t like it. Didn’t know how to deal with it. And he certainly didn’t know how to talk about it. He didn’t do talks—he’d never had to.
But now, seeing that look in her eyes, knowing he was the one who’d put it there… Hell. Henny might be a brawler on the ice these days, but he really didn’t like hurting people.
Especially not his best friend.
He looked up into her angel face again, trying to anchor himself. Hoping like hell it wasn’t too late to fix things. His head ached like a bitch, but when she ran her fingers through his hair and sighed, he found another reason to smile.
“What’s the prognosis, doc?” he asked. “Will I live?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Bex rolled her eyes, grabbing a fistful of his hair and giving it a gentle tug. “But we might have to amputate your face.” She put away the bandages for a second time, then sighed. “What am I going to do with—”
An angry fist pounded on the other side of the door. “You two baking cookies in there? Wrap it up already.”
“Sorry!” Bex called out. “Just a minute.” Then, to Henny, “We should probably—”
“Stay,” he whispered, reaching for her hand.
“Someone’s waiting for the bathroom.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.” He pulled her close in front of him again, sliding his hands up her thighs, her hips. Pressing his mouth to her belly, he said, “Stop fighting this.”
“I… I can’t.”
“You can.”
She pulled away again, but Henny stood up, his hands on her hips, backing her up against the sink. Her eyes were wide and glassy as she looked up at him, her lashes wet with tears.
Down to Puck (Buffalo Tempest Hockey Book 2) Page 16