Cross-Checked by Lily Harlem Page B

joined in. Fists flew, jerseys were tugged and dragged, players were brutally shoved and fell to the ice. I spotted Brick yanking at a Digger who’d wrapped an elbow around Wolf’s neck. The camera moved in close. Brick looked furious, his teeth gritted, his eyes narrowed and his cheeks red. Wolf threw a punch upward, made contact and the guy slackened his grip, leaving Wolf free to block the fist aimed for his solar plexus by another Digger.
    I gasped.
    Before it happened I knew it was going to. Though the TV roared, in my head, everything went quiet. It was happening fast, but time dropped to slow motion. The Digger Brick had grabbed drew back his arm and pummeled forward. The heavy blow struck Brick in the right eye socket.
    “No,” I cried, stepping up to the TV.
    Brick reeled backward with the force of the punch. But he paused for only a second, then he was raining down blows on his attacker. His balled fists flew at the Digger’s face, he missed so grabbed his jersey, buried his head into his opponent’s chest like a charging bull and sent them both reeling, skidding and tumbling on the ice.
    “Get him,” I heard myself shout, my own fists clenching as I hopped from foot to foot. “Hit the bastard.”
    The fans were wild, their frenzied shouts almost drowning out the commentator.
    Eventually the refs separated the offenders.
    The head ref, a small man with a thin black moustache, sent four players to the sin bin and two went off the ice for game misconducts. One Digger and two Vipers went to the medic, including Brick.
    I strained to see Brick’s face as he skated off the ice. He’d taken one hell of a whack to his eye. He’d have a shiner tomorrow. I just hoped it wasn’t more serious. The thought of something happening to his perfect green eyes with their sparkling gold flecks was horrifying.
    I sat heavily on the sofa, my pasta supper lurching in my stomach. My hands were shaking and my heart pounding. I’d gone from the excitement of seeing Brick, to the sickening fury of Mae’s presence, to the horror of watching him attacked, all in a matter of minutes.
    I reached for the wine bottle. Topped myself up, hugged a cushion to my chest and set about watching the game. Well, I didn’t really watch. Although the players scored points and indulged in brutal checks, my eyes kept searching for Brick coming back onto the ice.
    Imagining him behind the scenes, head tipped back and medics hovering over him, made me nauseous. The first period break came and went. He still wasn’t back on the ice. I couldn’t see him anywhere. Oh god. He was really hurt. His eye really damaged. I reached for my mobile phone, pulling up his number again. Should I ring him?
    No.
    I couldn’t. Not now she was there. Heat rose on my cheeks. She was probably in the locker room with him. Holding his hand and fussing over him as the medics dressed his wounds or worse, waited for the ambulance to arrive.
    The match ended with the Vipers winning by one point. Another scuffle broke out as they headed to the tunnel and the linesmen had to drag two rookie players apart.
    Resting back on the sofa, I blew out a long breath. I had to think calmly. I couldn’t fall to pieces. Trouble was, rational thinking was slipping away rapidly and there was no fooling myself any longer. This had gone way beyond lusting after Brick and admiring him from afar.
    I was in love with him. One-hundred-damn-percent!
    He had taken my heart as swiftly as he could race over the ice. Stolen my thoughts and dreams before he’d ever even spent a night in my bed.
    I rubbed my palms over my cheeks. I knew I had it bad—seeing him injured had felt like a physical injury to my own body and my arms ached to hold him.
    My fingers twitched to dial his number again. I just wanted to speak to him. Make sure he was okay.
    Until I did that I didn’t know if I could even breathe.
    * * * * *
     
    The next two days dragged as if they were two years. I did extra miles on my bike