Page 132 of Revenge Puck

“Fuck you.”

“Don’t worry.” I clap a glove to his shoulder and give him another forceful shove, my eyes on the referee standing not too far behind him. “She’s not watching you.”

“Fuck you,” he says again.

“No—fuckyou.”

Juliette is scanning the ice now, hand lifted to shield her eyes from the glare of the lights as she squints through the glass.

Then she sees us.

Her face brightens.

And she waves.

Mittened hand in the air, bouncing slightly as she stretches up on her toes.

I don’t hesitate; I wave back.

Declan waves too.

Storm—because he’s a fucking idiot—also waves.

For half a second, we look like idiots lined up at center ice, three grown men in helmets waving at the family section like it’s a parade float.

Juliette laughs and waves again.

“She’s waving at me, you prick, put your hand down,” her brother snaps.

“You wish she was waving at you.” I grin wider, lifting my glove higher to piss him off.

Storm keeps his glove in the air. “Let’s not rule anyone out. I’ve got great cheekbones.”

“She’s wearing my jersey, asshole,” Declan announces, like that settles it.

“I’ll give her one of mine later tonight, when she’s at my place.”

Declan’s hand drops immediately.

Storm’s too.

The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of warm ups.

“You want to say that again?” Declan asks, voice dangerously calm.

Storm grabs my arm. “Dude. No.”

I shrug him off. “What? It’s not illegal to change clothes.”

“You are actively trying to get punched,” Storm mutters, lacing his gloved hand through my arm again and tugging me toward the bench. “Quit while you’re ahead.”

I can’t.

Because Declan’s jaw is tight, eyes burning, and I know exactly what that look means: He’s out to get me.

Good—I can take it.

I welcome the fight.