8. Lachlan

Chapter 8

Lachlan

E mma's glare makes me squirm in my seat, and I feel a little like a kid caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. But fuck it, Taran deserved those punches. He's been needling me the entire game, and I'm not one to just sit back and take it.

"Lachlan," Emma says, her voice low and dangerous, "I expect better from my Captain-slash-Coach."

I grimace. "I know. But Taran?—"

"Oh, I don't give a toss about Taran!" she hisses. "I care about you keeping your head on straight and leading this team by example."

She's right, of course. But admitting that feels like swallowing glass. "I'll do better," I mumble.

"You'd better," she replies, her eyes softer now but still stern. "Now sit there and cool off."

As she storms back up the aisle to her seat, I admire the fire in her. It makes me all horny, and I wonder if I could fuck her while she snaps at me some more later. There's something extremely attractive about this woman who can put me in my place like that. The thought makes me grin despite the sharp sting of guilt.

In the penalty box opposite me, Taran is glaring daggers at me, pissed that Emma didn't even look at him. I meet his gaze head-on and smirk, which only seems to piss him off more. Good.

The minutes tick by painfully slow as I sit there, fuming and stewing in equal measure. My muscles twitch with pent-up energy and frustration. When the ref finally signals for us to rejoin the game, I'm off the bench like a shot.

Back on the ice, Keir skates over, giving me a meaningful look. "Cool it down, mate," he says as we line up for the face-off. "You're doing my job and not yours, arsehole."

I nod, even though my blood is still boiling. This game isn't just about winning anymore; it's about showing Emma that I can lead without losing my head. The puck drops, and I'm back in the zone, focused on the game.

The next few minutes are intense but controlled. Keir and I work seamlessly, passing and guarding with an unspoken understanding. It feels good to play like this, reminding me why I love the sport so much.

Just as we're making another rush towards Castle Arrows' goal, I catch a flash of red hair in the stands. Emma's eyes are on me, her expression unreadable but definitely less pissed off than before.

I think.

The whistle blows for offside, and we get a brief pause in the action. I move myself away from Taran, who appears to be edging closer to me. He's goading me, and now I have to be the bigger person. Fucker.

The game resumes. We're down to the final minute now, and Castle Arrows are desperate to equalise even though this is just a friendly and has no bearing on the League whatsoever. It's chaos on the ice.

Taran gets possession of the puck and barrels toward our goal like a man possessed. Keir intercepts him just in time, their bodies colliding with a crunch that echoes through the arena. The puck skitters away, and I seize the opportunity to grab it, darting up the ice with speed I didn't know I had left in me.

The crowd is a blur of noise and colour as I weave past Castle Arrows' defenders, my focus laser-sharp on their goalie. This is my chance to redeem myself, to show Emma that I can be the leader she needs me to be.

With a swift, fluid motion, I slap the puck towards the net. The goalie lunges, but it's too late. The puck sails past him and slams into the goal.

The arena explodes with cheers, and our team rushes towards me, celebrating our victory. But my eyes are immediately searching for Emma in the stands. She's on her feet, clapping and cheering with a broad smile on her face. Seeing her approval lights a fire in my chest that no goal could ever ignite.

After the final whistle blows, we officially claim victory, but Taran isn't letting this rivalry go anytime soon. He slams into me from behind, and I resist the urge to retaliate.

Keir growls and stands between Taran and me like a human wall. "Walk away, Fraser," he says to Taran, his voice low and terrifying in its calmness.

Taran smirks, but he does skate back a bit. "Next time," he taunts before skating off.

Keir turns to me. "You alright?"

"Yeah," I grunt. "That fucker. I need to rearrange his face."

"Don't think Emma will approve," he says with a slight smirk. "But I won't stop you if you fancy a go. He's been a real wanker today."

We skate off the ice to the roaring applause of our supporters, passing by a few of the Castle Arrows players who are giving us the middle finger. Well, fuck them. It's nothing new.

In the locker room, the atmosphere is electric. The lads are shouting and laughing, celebrating our win in high spirits. But my mind is elsewhere. I'm thinking about Emma—about her fiery reprimand earlier and that smile she gave me after I scored.

I peel off my gear mechanically, my hands moving on autopilot as my thoughts swirl around her, and then I buckle up for the after-game talk I have to give as coach despite my own shitty behaviour on the ice.

This is going to be fun.

Not.