The Pucking Wrong Man: SECOND EPILOGUE

“Now that girl knows how to make an entrance,” Logan purred, staring at a dark-haired woman walking toward a seat next to the visitor’s bench.

“I’m sure you want to become very familiar with her entrances,” mused Ari, his attention not even on the woman in question.

I snorted. “That was a good one.”

Ari huffed, his head snapping to look at me, his gaze kind of crazy-looking. “Why do you sound surprised at that, Hero? If anyone is funny in this group, it’s me.” He elbowed Lincoln who was making moon-eyes at Monroe and Lincoln growled.

Literally growled.

That guy was kind of scary.

“Golden Boy, tell them how funny I am.”

“It seems like you’re doing a good job of that yourself,” Lincoln mused, rubbing at where Ari had hit him.

“I think I’m in love,” Logan groaned, almost sounding serious as he stared at the woman lustfully.

I glanced around to see if Anastasia had gotten here yet, grinning when I saw her coming down the steps with Monroe, Blake, and Olivia.

“Tell me I’m not seeing things,” Logan elbowed me, and I snarled at him before reluctantly glancing over to where Logan was drooling. The girl was probably what most would consider “objectively attractive,” but she might as well have been paint drying on the wall for how interested I was in her.

“Fuck,” Logan snarled, sounding slightly…unhinged.

That caught Lincoln’s attention, and then we were all staring at the rookie as he glared at where one of the Tampa Bay players had leaned over the glass and was smiling down at the woman in question.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

With that dramatic display, he skated off, shooting at the net angrily. Walker hit the goal post, annoyed with the rookie. But Logan didn’t seem to notice.

First period ended, and we were down by one, and playing like complete shit.

“Fucking hell,” Logan muttered, eyeing that same Tampa defender he’d gotten pissed about before the game. Logan’s mood had continued throughout the period. He hadn’t called me Grandpappy once.

I would have said that it was the stress of being in Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals, but…it was obviously more than that.

“Hey, Rookie, is there a reason you keep checking Number 45? And was that fight really necessary?” Lincoln spit as we walked back to the locker room for the break. “I’d rather not be one man down the entire fucking game.”

Logan gritted his teeth, looking like he was debating whether he wanted to fight Lincoln right now.

“That was fucking Tyler Miller. The biggest motherfucking asshole you will ever meet. We played together in college.” Logan was pacing the locker room, looking like he was possessed as he clomped around in his skates.

“As enthralling as this story is—get your fucking head on straight, Rookie,” Lincoln snapped, right as Coach Porter came in to also rip us a new one for how we were playing.

“This is the fucking Stanley Cup Finals, gentlemen,” Coach barked. “How about you start fucking playing like it!”

Lincoln was still chewing Logan out when we got back onto the ice.

Play began again, and Lincoln’s little “pep talk” hadn’t seemed to work. Logan’s aggression was still ramped up, his usual precision replaced by raw, unfocused anger. He and Tyler collided against the boards, and I winced as Logan took a particularly hard hit.

Tyler gave him a thumbs up, and Logan responded with a vicious check. Ari grabbed him by the jersey and ripped him off before he got another penalty.

During a break in play, I saw Logan glance up into the stands. His face lit up with a mischievous grin as he waved at the girl he’d been talking about before the game started. Tyler snarled at Logan and shoulder checked him as he passed.

Fucking great.

When we got back on the ice, Logan’s intensity only increased. He took every opportunity to slam into Tyler.

When he was sent to the penalty box for the third time of the night…I was ready to kill him.

The game was slipping away from us. Tampa Bay scored on Walker, and despite our best efforts, we couldn’t catch up. When we lost by one, it wasn’t a surprise.

We hadn’t deserved to win.

What was a surprise, was Tyler’s girl, or whatever she was, had come onto the ice with some of the other WAGs to celebrate. As I watched, Logan skated over, grabbed her by the waist…and kissed her, bending her backwards theatrically like we were in a fucking Hollywood movie.

“What the fuck?” Tyler snarled, shoving Logan away from the girl. Tyler didn’t seem to notice when she slipped on the ice and fell.

But Logan did.

Logan’s eyes flashed, and a second later, he and Tyler were crashing to the ice, fists flying. The crowd erupted, the noise deafening. Teammates from both sides rushed in, pulling them apart.

Logan’s face was red, his lip bloody as Lincoln dragged him toward our bench.

“You’re fucking dead, York,” Tyler screamed over the ice.

Logan flipped him off with both hands, a maniacal grin on his face.

Fuck.

This was going to be quite the Finals.