Klondike's voice rose. "Even if I did, what's the big deal? It's not like it's a secret. Everyone knows you're fucking the cookie fairy."
Cookie fairy.
My right fist connected with Klondike's jaw before my brain caught up to what I was doing.
The sound was clean. Satisfying. Like a perfect one-timer finding the back of the net.
Klondike's head snapped back, blood immediately flowing from his split lip. For half a second, his face went blank—genuine confusion, unable to process why locker room banter had earned him a split lip. Then, his expression hardened, and his fist flew toward my face, catching me high on the cheekbone.
Pain exploded across my skull. It was a clean hit, too. Honest. None of the messy emotional bullshit I'd been drowning in since last night. Only action and reaction.
We crashed into the equipment bins, sending sticks and helmets scattering across the rubber mats. I got another shot in—one to his ribs—before hands grabbed my shoulders, hauling me backward.
"That's enough!" Coach Monroe's voice cut through the room like a fire alarm. "Separate them! Now!"
Kennedy had one of my arms. Lambert had the other. Two other guys restrained Klondike, who was calling me every name in the book.
Adrenaline surged through my bloodstream. I had split knuckles, blood running down my fingers to drip on the floor, but my head was clear.
"He started it!" Klondike yelled, struggling against his handlers. "Fucking lunatic attacked me!"
"I don't give a shit who started it!" Coach's face was red, veins popping in his neck. "You're both done. Off the ice. Both of you."
I let Kennedy and Lambert guide me toward the door. The rage was still there, simmering under my skin, but it was different. Purposeful. Clean.
He'd deserved it.
And I'd do it again.
Even if it cost me everything.
Monroe's office was what you'd expect from a minor league coach—cramped, cluttered, and smelling faintly of old coffee. Team photos covered one wall, going back decades.
He sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, studying my injured face. My knuckles had stopped bleeding, but they were starting to swell. Purple bruises bloomed across the back of my right hand.
"Less than a week, Riley, and you're throwing punches in my locker room."
I stared at my hands, seeing the split skin and dried blood under my nails. "Yes, sir."
"You want to tell me what that was about?"
The honest answer would've taken an hour or more. I'd have to explain how Evan organized his spice rack alphabetically because it made him feel safe. How he'd given me an unmarked game puck because some things were too important to label. How hearing him reduced to a punchline made something protective and feral rise up in my chest.
I said, "Personal disagreement."
Monroe leaned back in his chair. "Personal disagreement."
"He said some things, and I responded."
"With your fists."
"Yes, sir."
Through the office's thin walls, I heard the team taking the ice for practice—the scrape of blades and pop of pucks against the boards.
"You know what kills me about this?" Monroe's voice was softer, more tired than angry. "Yesterday, you looked like you belonged out there. Mature. Composed. Like maybe you'd figured something out."
"Maybe I had."
