I’m gonna kill him. Caleb Sanford is a dead man. He put her up to this, I know it. I bet he bought her the damn jersey. With my damn credit card! He thinks he’s so fucking funny, spinning me up like this. I can hardly see straight as I skate into position.
I was already in a shit mood because of Mars. Right when I think I’m making progress with that asshole, he shoves me away hard. I know Rachel loves the guy, but if he doesn’t cool it with his Mr. Freeze routine, I’m gonna have to stage an intervention.
We’ll see if he can maintain the freeze-out after a week-long Amy Compton hot yoga retreat. I don’t even care anymore. I’m that ready to force him open. I’ll fly us all out to Japan and trap us at an onsen for a week. We won’t leave the damn steam room until Mars learns to unclench those stupid buns of steel. Sake, stretching, and steam. That’s the magic combo to uncork this surly Finn.
I can’t believe she’s wearing his jersey! I mean, I know they trauma-bonded over his injury. And now the Finnish Olympic scouts are here. But I was here first. She should be in my jersey!
I swear to fuck, Caleb is behind this. And shit, why does he look so good in my jersey? He’s who I saw first, and I swear to god, my dick twitched a little in my jock. He’s never worn one of my jerseys before. Never.
He’s up to something. Well, that sneaky shit is gonna get what’s coming to him. But it’ll have to wait. Right now, there’s a job to do. And since I can’t rip that jersey off Seattle—or punch Cay in the nuts—every Kraken on this ice better watch the fuck out. I intend to make someone bleed.
