My girl is killing it in a slinky long-sleeved champagne top and sexy distressed skinny jeans. This is the most skin I've seen her show in public since our dinner together at the hotel. The tattoos under her collarbones dance over a respectable amount of cleavage, winking at me in the ever-shifting light as we enter the bar. I had trouble keeping my hands to myself on the ride here.

Only it's more than me drooling over the way her ass fills out those jeans. It's her confidence to rock something other than anonymous clothing. Be seen instead of ignored.

The crowd is dense by the time we arrive, the bar already stacked three deep and standing room only. People closest to the door spot us, recognize me, even out of Cyclones or Sabers colors. Smiles spread wider, some jabbing elbows into their counterparts. Reece catches a few glares from loitering women.

Except she doesn't cower. Those big brown eyes spot a flash of blue from across the way, drag me toward it by laced fingers. We're slowed by claps on my shoulder, congratulating me on the victory in Montreal, lamenting that my team missed me the two weeks I was away.

None of them have the zeal that Kaila does when she spots. I swear she bowls over two hockey players getting to Reece. "You made it!"

"I wasn't going to miss celebrating your promotion." Reece laughs.

"Internship."

"Nuance." Reece shrugs off her dense motorcycle jacket. "There someplace I can put this?"

"Oh, anywhere on the back of a chair," Kaila gesture to where all the seat space has been occupied by coats, their owners milling about the table to access the beer bucket or shots. "Someone's always here, keeping an eye on things."

"Cool."

More than a few of my teammates gawp as the dense leather slides off her shoulders. They're right to ogle. Reece is hot.

Plus, they're my teammates. She's safe here. Nobody's going to try something sketchy with a bunch of hockey players on the prowl. Mess with one of us, you mess with all of us.

Spencer manages to cleave the crowd with his 6'7" frame, plant a pair of colorful fruity mixed drinks on the table. One is bright blue, matches the color of Kaila's hair. The other looks like a sunrise.

The guys all start making 'whipped' sounds along the table. Spencer just jeers back and sips his drink. "Fuck you. They're delicious and hella strong."

"Don't drink too many," Russo taunts. "Your hair will end up like Blue's."

"Oo!" Kaila runs her hand through Spencer's hair. "That would be pretty."

"Regulations, babe."

"Killjoy." She pouts and sips the blue drink. "Can't believe they let you grow that beard and get all those tattoos but won't let you dye your hair."

"My tattoos and beard are amazing." He protests. "And when I shave, I look like I'm twelve."

"Dunno." Kaila gives a flirtatious wink. "Might be fun to switch up the ride for your season ticket holders."

Russo and Bower howl, high-five Kaila across the table. She meets the gesture, grins up at Spencer, all feigned innocence. The poor captain just stands sipping his drink, blush brighter than the grenadine used to flavor it.

The team all congregates with laughter and embraces, catching up from the holidays. We're local, so most folks don't travel much to see family. Unless you're me. Then travel is always guaranteed. Still, I know none of them can hold a candle to the joy of my Christmas Day, waking up with Reece's hand in my hair, her lips on mine, that soft body against mine all night.

"I'll get us a beer," I say, having to lean close to be heard over the surrounding music and celebration. "What would you like?"

"Same thing you're having," she shouts back.

"Already got it covered." Johnson plunks two longnecked Canadian pilsners in front of us, absolutely beaming. "Glad you made it back, Killfucker."

We pull in for a chest-bumping bro-hug. "Glad to be back."

"Little Blondie," Johnson give Reece frank elevator eyes. "You are smokin'. Didn't know you were rocking that masterpiece under all those layers. Bas should give you reasons to dress up more often."

Reece flushes, twirls a strand of her hair between her fingers. The pendant glitters prettily on her neck. "Thanks."

I'm about to tell him where he can shove his 'reasons' when he turns to me with genuine concern in his dark eyes. "Got a minute to talk?"

"Yeah. Sure, man," I pluck the beer he bought me off the table.

Johnson looks sheepishly around at the team. "Maybe someplace else?"

Uh-oh. This doesn't bode well.

I turn to Reece. "You going to be okay for a bit?"

"Sure." Reece glances between me and Johnson, offers the goalie a reassuring smile. "Take your time. I'll harass Russo and Bower about hockey rules."

"They know how to talk about more than hockey."

"I know." She sips her beer. "But I want to learn. That way next time I go to a game, I can scream at the ref right alongside Kaila."

How is this my life? My heart gives a little flutter, and I pull her in for a quick kiss. "You're incredible."

"And you're needed by your goalie, Cap." She jerks her chin in Johnson's direction, offers a wink. "Go. I'll be right here."

I snag my beer, accompany Johnson to the far end of the bar. It's quieter here, less people jockeying for drinks. We probably won't get service, but we both have a full bottle and glass.

"What's up?" Spencer always calls us all 'kids'. Because he's the oldest on the roster. I've barely got Johnson by a few years and it doesn't feel right. Just like it seems strange that he's calling on me for support when we were at each other's throats the beginning of the season.

Johnson sighs, twists the diamond in his earlobe. "My agent's retiring."

That doesn't sound so bad. "And?"

"I think maybe I should, too."

"What?" I choke on my swallow of beer. "You're twenty-fucking-two years old! That is not the age for retirement. What are you, hurt?"

"No."

"Don't like hockey anymore?" I can't comprehend that, but it happens.

"No." He responds immediately. "I love hockey. I still love hockey. But you've been in the pros. You know what it's like. Slots for goalies don't open up much. I wasted away for two years before the Cyclones ever picked me up."

"That happens, man. That's how the league goes."

He sips his Henn. "Then you come in and slash my defense to ribbons. You. This party boy who got picked up young, bounced between teams, and got left in the minors to rot."

Well that's a little harsh, but I don't correct him.

"I'm starting to think I'll never be good enough. Like maybe my agent retiring is a sign I should hang up my skates, try and be a productive member of society." He gives a blisteringly cynical chuckle. "Me, with my BA in English Lit. The fuck am I going to do with my life?"

"I'll tell you what you're going to do." I take a long pull on my beer and set it down. "You're going to stop this pity-party shit right now. It doesn't suit a hockey player and it sure as fuck doesn't suit you."

Johnson's eyes widen, but he doesn't interrupt.

"You're going to get yourself another agent," I continue. "Then you're going to the NHL training camp come summer. You're going to blow them away. The amount of skill you've picked up since I've been here is incredible. You've made some saves this year that are worthy of the NHL highlight reel."

"Because you pushed me."

"No. You pushed yourself." I stab him in the chest with my finger. "You. You did that. You worked those extra reaction plays. You put in the extra hours even when morning skates weren't required. You. I wasn't there for any of that."

"Yeah," he sneers. "So I could whoop your cocky ass."

"And maybe one day you will," I taunt back. "Can't wait to see you try from an NHL net."

"Ass." He finishes off his Henn with a low rumble, glances back out to the team. "Thanks, Killfeather. I think my head's a little straighter now."

"Sure." I clap his shoulder. "I'll have my agent email you by the end of the week. I'm sure he'd love the chance to go to bat for you when NHL contract negotiations come up."

Johnson laughs. "Right."

I finish my beer, manage to order another one as well as a Henn for Johnson. Then I head back to the table, feeling a little bit proud. I wasn't lying when I told Jolet Montai about his skills. He'll be a blessing to any team with the smarts enough to sign him.

Spencer and Kaila tap their shot glasses on the table before downing the tequila. I quickly hand Kaila a lime to suck and chase the burn of the liquor, seeing her face scrunch up and eyes get red.

"Thanks," she gasps. "Wow, that was rough."

Spencer just chuckles. "Puts hair on your chest."

"Just what I need," she deadpans through her charmed grin.

I take pull on my beer, scan over the swaying bodies on the dance floor for Reece. Something cold settles in my stomach. She said she'd be here.

Russo and Bower rock into me, laughing. Shouting over the din, I ask, "Have you seen Reece?"

"Little Blondie?" Russo clarifies. "She was just heading out from the bathroom when I saw her."

I frown. How long was I talking to Johnson?

"I'll be right back," I mutter to nobody in particular.

Dread twists with the cold in my stomach. I shift through the churning bodies, not really aware if I'm polite or mutter excuses as I pass. If anyone calls me out, I can't hear them. I'm focused on finding my girl.

I spot her long blonde hair flecked by dancefloor light, champagne top huddled outside the smoking patio window in the cold. Relief floods through me, followed by confusion. What the hell?

Shouldering the door open sends a lungful of frozen air down my throat. I give a brief cough before reaching for her elbow. "Mon belle, what are you doing? You'll catch your death out here."

Reece stands frozen, gaze huge and petrified as she turns it up to me. "...Bas?"

"Yeah," I try and keep my voice gentle in the face of such naked fear. The nightmare is back. "Come on. Let's go inside."

"Ahem." Comes a haughty tone. "We were having a conversation."

I hadn't noticed the tall stranger leering in the shadows. A snide smirk rests on his lips, cold blue eyes staring daggers at Reece, then me. The entire thing makes me seethe, makes my vision rim in red.

Realization explodes. Reece's terror, the guarding posture, his smug fucking face. My fists clench at my sides, my lip curling.

"You!" I bellow, every muscle coiling. I don't even care that people on the patio turn to stare. "So help me if you fucking touched her."

"Ah, the new mutt." The prick murmurs, furling his own fists. "I remember you from the café. Figures the little slut would find some half-breed mongrel."

I can't even hear the insults thrown at me over the name for Reece. "You shut your goddamn mouth."

"Or what?" Asher cocks a pale brow. "You'll beat me senseless?"

I crack my neck like a boxer. "We'll start with that."

"Oh how chivalrous," his drawls. "Defending the worthless bitch's honor."

"You mother-"

"Bas," Reece's small, chilled hand grips the crook of my elbow, stops me before I can lunge. When I peer at her, her lips are blue, a small spark clawing at the void in her eyes. "P-please. Don't."

I deflate the tiniest amount. "Reece."

"Please don't," Asher mocks her quiet voice, eyes fixing on her again. "Not quite as sweet as when you begged for me."

She makes a strangled noise, nails digging into my skin.

I turn back to him, stayed by the little girl and her fragile hold. "Shut up."

"I'm not talking to you, cur." He sniffs at me. Then the fucker actually snaps his fingers, points to his boot like he's addressing a misbehaving dog. "Come here, Reece."

She grimaces, digging into me further. "N-no."

His eyes narrow. "What the hell did you just say to me?"

"No!" Reece shouts, the word from deep in her chest. "I will not."

"Listen here, girl." Asher advances, fists at his side. His gaze is murderous on Reece. "You're mine, you understand? Mine. You've had your little dalliance, had your flare of fun. You were a naughty girl when you left me, but I've found you. I'll always find you."

I move forward, a small tug on my arm yanking me back. Vaguely, I'm aware of the crowd building, pulling out their phones where Asher and I mist the air between us, each seething with hatred for the other.

"No," Reece hisses, gaze defiant and fixed on Asher. "He's not worth it, Bas. Walk away."

"You little fucking cunt!" Asher roars.

"Hey!" I snarl, but don't move. He's closed the distance for me, our foreheads practically butt, both of us ready to knock the other's lights out.

I get paid to face enforcers guarding the puck. I'm no stranger to pain, blood, or a fight. This is setting up like one. Especially with those fucking words I want to jam back down his throat.

I remember the scars on her back, her abdomen. Everything I've spent days and months seeing as beautiful, swearing to fuck up the person who did them.

Now that I'm faced with him, I have to back down.

Asher's eyes spin to me. "What, mulatto?"

"The only reason I'm not kicking your ass," I swallow past the gravel in my mouth, "Is because she asked me not to."

"How very gracious of you," he sneers.

"Don't set foot near her again." I roll my shoulders, take a step back toward Reece's hold.

"Hey." Asher barks. I don't listen, holding the door for Reece. "Hey!" He bellows.

I ignore him, give him my back as I move to escort Reece inside. Back to warmth, the team, and safety.

"Puta madre!"

It's my only warning before pain erupts behind my eyeball. The motherfucker follows up with a jab across the left side of my skull.

"Come here you filthy little whore!" Asher makes a grab for Reece as I reel from the cheap shot. "You're getting punished for this."

The red in my vision burns burgundy.

I wrench Reece out of his hold, all but slam her against the brick wall to keep Asher's hit from landing. It catches me hard in the back of the neck and I snarl.

I turn. The move earns me a blow to the mouth, another cuff on the side of my head that makes my ears ring. Fucker hits hard. Imagining it on Reece makes my simmering rage into a volcanic force.

Something grabs at my arm from behind, but my barely notice. Instead, I cock back and land a jab under his chin. Nobody expects the southpaw.

Snatching his wrist, I drag him forward. Asher losses footing, setting him up perfectly for my headbutt. My skull aches as his nose shatters beneath the blow.

I chase with a hard uppercut to his jaw and a slung elbow across his temple.

"Fight, fight, fight!" Cheers the crowd.

Words I've heard, ignored. Before this, it was white noise in a packed stadium, the cheers, videos, and noise part of the game. Now is different, but I don't care. I need him away from Reece.

Asher lands a blow against my brow, blinds me with the bloody rivulet into my vision. Growling, I match him with a gut punch. He heaves and halves. Then the bastard uses the momentum to tackle me, knock me back and take me to the ground.

I feel the crunch of broken glass into my shoulders, the searing of cold concrete digging it deeper. It spurs me further, harder. The fist against my jaw, the crack of my skull on the pavement barely sing through my veins. I bring my arms up against the reigning blows to my face, rock my hips out from his hold.

A shift, a dig of my heel against his hip. I kick and he flips. I plant on his chest, he expels a mouthful of blood.

I aim punch after punch on the face that haunted Reece's nightmares. He guards, twists, writhes, but I'm too heavy, too brutal. Left, right, left, right, I bruise and bloody my knuckles on his bone, his flesh, relish the ache as victory.

Something hard catches my fist before it can land again, split that pale skin further over his cheek, his lip, shatter his jaw and pummel his nose into a grizzly, contused mess. I swing impotently with the other hand, only to be viced by both shoulders.

"Bas!" A deep voice shouts.

I roar in frustration, hating the restraint.

"That's enough!" The voice – Spencer's, I realize – calls again, grappling me away.

My mind is too full of bloodlust. This fucker will pay, he'll scar, he'll never touch a woman like that again. I'll make sure he goes home as broken and ravaged as his victims.

"Je vais le tuer." I spit through the frothy blood in my mouth.

I have no concept of language, no concept of self. All I can see is Reece, sobbing and terrified in front of this...creature. He's less than human, less than dirt. I'll pummel him back to hell with my own heel if I have to.

"He's had enough!" Spencer tries again.

Again, I wrench against his hold, intent on beating that piece of shit's bones into jelly.

"Bas!"

"Fuck you!"

That's when a huge hand wrenches me by the front of my hoodie in a direction I'm not expecting. Cold brick meets my back. The wind gushes from me followed by, not one, but four strong hands on my arms.

I blink, look away from the crumpled man struggling to stand.

Past the crimson of my blood and ire, my teammates stand before me. Russo and Bower both have my shoulders and wrists pinned at my sides, scowling. Spencer's fist is bunched in my hoodie's collar, pressing me into the side of the building. Beyond them, Johnson has his huge arms folded over his chest, stance wide and eager to intercept. And behind him, Reece.

Blood pours from her nose, dribbles down her chin, clots on the pendant. Big brown eyes meet mine, lashes flecked with tears. Now they're full of a new terror, something strange. Something I can't touch.