Dirty Hit

Chapter 1: Hayden

"You're Hayden Fucking Vaughn," I mutter. "Get your shit together."

Seems like I need the goddamn reminder today after missing that last shot. My teammates are looking at me like I've been body snatched by some asshole who doesn't know a puck from a sandwich. Maybe I have.

It's not like I haven't tried to get the damn thing into the net.

I've been working my ass off since I was five years old, when my nanny strapped me into skates and pushed me onto the ice for the first time because her son wanted to play hockey and she was stuck hauling my ass along. I've been chasing the puck ever since.

I'm good. No, scratch that—I'm great. One of the best defensemen in the NHL, with a reputation for being ruthless on the ice. They call me The Hitman for a reason. I'm not afraid to take out anyone who gets in my way, and it's earned me respect and fear from every team we face.

So why can't I get my head in the game today?

"Watch out!" one of my teammates shouts as the star forward for the Aces, Kovalenko, comes charging toward me, stick raised high and ready to shoot.

It's like everything slows down in that moment. The sound of skates cutting through the ice fades away, the crowd noise fades to nothing, and all I can hear is my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I know what I need to do—what I always do when a player from the other team is coming at me like this.

I need to hit him. Hard.

All the frustration that's been building since the start of the game boils over and I chase him down, checking him from behind right into the boards. He hits with a satisfying crunch and I spit out my mouthguard, grinning over his twisted and still body.

"That's what you get for trying to score on me," I growl at him as whistles blow and a fight erupts around me. Both benches clear and it's chaos.

Someone punches me in the face, but I barely feel the pain as my teeth slice into my cheek and my head snaps to the side. My mouth fills with blood that I spit onto the ice. I whirl around, ready to take on whoever else wants a piece of me, giving one of the Aces players a bloody grin that's all menace.

This is what I needed—what I live for. These moments when I can drop gloves and purge the bad shit out through my fists.

Eventually, the refs and a couple of my cooler-headed teammates break up the fight. I let them lead me away, knowing that we've got the game in the bag now. The Aces are pissed and their star forward can't even skate himself off the ice, but I'm still buzzing with adrenaline as I head to the penalty box. Halfway there, the refs tell me I'm done.

Fucking ejected.

Eh, it's not the first time and I doubt it'll be the last.

I grab a water bottle from one of our trainers and head back toward the locker room, feeling a little better than before. But as I pass by a group of Atlanta fans, they're taunting me for my hit and I stop to flip them off. As I care that I have a reputation for playing dirty.

Eventually the game ends and something's up with my teammates. I watch the monitors in the locker room, still pissed about being ejected as they silently skate toward the tunnel to a packed arena throwing shit at them and yelling things that make me want to launch myself into the crowd.

When they make their way into the locker room, I'm waiting for them with a scowl on my face. "What the fuck was that?"

"We lost," O'Sullivan says with a flat voice, shaking his head as he starts to strip off his gear, chucking his helmet into his locker with a loud-ass bang.

I snort. "Yeah, no shit. But why didn't you guys fight back? We had a lead and then you just let them take it away."

"You were ejected," Petrov points out.

"And?" I ask. "That's not an excuse. I took Kovalenko out. You should've won."

Abrams glares at me. "That's not how the rest of us want to win."

I open my mouth to bitch at him for being a pussy, but then Coach storms into the locker room and starts tearing into all of us. He doesn't mention me specifically, but I can see it in his eyes that he's pissed about what happened on the ice.

As we head out to the bus, I'm still fuming about the loss. It shouldn't have happened. We're the best damn team in the league and we should've been able to hold onto that lead without me on the ice.

I fling myself into a seat, ignoring the looks from my teammates as I pull out my phone and scroll through Instagram.

And that's when I see it: A new DM.

I don't know what makes me do it. Usually I ignore that shit, especially after a game like this one. But I click into my messages anyway, knowing I shouldn't. Right there at the top is a new message from someone with the username "skatesandstilettos".

I open it and am drawn immediately to the little icon with her picture in it—long brown hair and bright green eyes, pretty lips curved up in a smile that makes my dick twitch in my pants. She's fucking gorgeous, even if she looks like a good girl who wouldn't know what to do with a guy like me.

But then I read the message attached to the picture and my blood runs hot.

"You're a dirty player and an asshole. If you actually had any hockey skills, you wouldn't have to cheat to win games."

I stare at those words for a long time, my fingers tightening around my phone as anger surges through me. Who the fuck does this chick think she is? She doesn't know me or anything about me. She's just some fan who thinks she can say whatever the hell she wants without consequences.

Well, she's wrong.

I type back a response before I can stop myself. "You don't know shit about me, princess. And if you don't want to see dirty hockey, don't fucking watch the game." But I pause before I hit send, my thumb hovering over the button.

What am I doing?

It's not like her opinion matters to me. She's just a fan. And yet, I can't seem to let it go. I keep thinking about what she said—about how I'm a dirty player and an asshole—and I can't shake the feeling that maybe she's right.

But also... who cares? I am who I am.

Instead of sending the message, I click into her profile and scroll through her posts. She doesn't have many pictures of herself, most of them are lifestyle shots of what she's eating or where she's going. But there are enough of her that show she's got curves in all the right places. There's something about her that draws me in, even though I know I shouldn't be looking at her.

She's a fan. And probably bat shit, considering her message. Still, I can't stop staring at her photos. One of the Space Needle catches my eye and I realize she lives in Seattle on the other side of the country while I'm heading back to Philly.

But as I stare out the window of the bus, watching the lights of Atlanta fade away in the distance, I can't stop thinking about her. About how much I want the chance to show this woman exactly what kind of player I am.

A/N: How are we feeling about Hayden so far?