Chapter 71 TYLER
Pain shot up my arm as my fist connected with someone’s jaw, my elbow slamming into the next attacker’s nose. I shouldn’t have been the one throwing punches—not when I was the captain and usually the one breaking up fights. But I’d already been pissed when I walked back into the party. Pissed at Mark’s affectionate voice as he touched Harper, and Harper… hell, it felt like she’d been trying to get a reaction out of me on purpose.
When I moved toward the bar set up in the corner of the hall, where half my teammates were talking loudly and casting lustful gazes at the girls loitering around, I wasn’t expecting to overhear the conversation between two players from the Westbrook rival team.
“...bro, I’m not fucking joking. I’m going to get her in bed. She’s way too hot to pass up. You know I love my girls slim and sexy,” the buff redhead said. His friend barked out a laugh.
“Dude, she’s Sam’s cousin. He’ll kill you.”
“Not like he’d give a shit. I bet he’d prefer my dick in his cousin to one of those bratty Westfield jocks.”
“And what makes you think the girl doesn’t fancy Westfield dicks over ours? Girls like that Harper seem obsessed with their own players more than rival schools.”
My spine locked instantly. I looked over just in time to see the redhead staring at the doorway—right where Mark and Harper stood.
“If she fancies guys like the dude she’s talking to, then I need to teach her what being with a real man feels like. All girls are fucking sluts, bro. I bet she’ll be easy—”
I didn’t think. I just lunged.
Slamming into him with my full weight, I took him down hard. My sling arm pressed into his chest as I drove my other fist into his face again and again. If Peter and Jax hadn’t interfered, I swear I would’ve been on my way to fucking jail—and I’d still do it again without hesitation.
“Eat shit, you bald fucking asshole!” Peter snarled somewhere to my right, snapping me back to the chaos erupting around us.
My right arm throbbed from taking most of the impact from the fight, my body screaming with exhaustion, but the adrenaline pumping through me made me want to keep hitting something—anything—until my eyes locked on her.
She stood alone across the room, wide-eyed, panicked, unsure of how to stop the madness as people rushed past her, shoving her out of the way—some joining the fight, others recording it like idiots.
I tore my gaze away, scanning the room for Mark, who had left her to help me—not that I needed him. He was fighting another guy, slamming him against a table and punching him repeatedly. All my teammates looked like they’d been waiting their whole lives for this moment, because every single one of them seemed to be winning their fights.
I looked back at Harper just as her eyes met mine.
The panic in them extinguished whatever anger still burned in me. I shouldn’t have started this. I could get my entire team in trouble.
Dragging Billy off the redhead’s friend from earlier he was grappling with, I wrapped my arm around his neck to hold him still.
“Knock it off. Help me get the rest of the team out before word reaches Coach,” I hissed into his ear.
That did it. Billy calmed immediately, then headed toward Kane to pull him off his opponent.
Next was Peter. I grabbed him by the jacket before he could lunge at another Westbrook player. “Quit it, man. Coach will kill us if he hears about this.”
“You’re one to talk,” Peter snapped, but he quickly collected himself, rolling his shoulders. “Sorry. Got carried away.”
“It’s cool. Get Mark a fucking ambulance or something. Make up an excuse too. I’m taking Harper out of here.”
His eyes darted through the crowd, landing on Mark—now flat on his back while a guy rained punches down on him. Blood soaked Mark’s arm, too much blood. Peter sprinted toward him and ripped the attacker off like the guy weighed nothing.
I let them handle things and moved toward Harper, grabbing her arm before she could protest and pulling her with me.
“Come on.”
“B-but Mark?” she whispered.
My chest tightened painfully.
“Peter will look after him,” I ground out.
The night air bit at the cut on my lip as we stepped outside. The snow had melted into puddles, leaving the street damp under the clear night sky. I led her to my car, opened the passenger door, and waited until she climbed in before shutting it and getting behind the wheel.
The car was warm—too warm for my sweat-soaked body—but Harper seemed to welcome the heat, so I didn’t bother reaching for the A/C. We drove in silence until we were far enough away from the chaos, then I pulled over near Central Park where I knew few people would be around this late.
Harper looked like she was silently praying her seat would swallow her. She gnawed on her bottom lip, shoulders tense.
“Are you okay?” I asked quietly.
“I shouldn’t have left him,” she murmured, still refusing to look at me.
Guilt slammed into me. What the hell was I doing? Mark was my friend—my right winger. He’d stepped in without hesitation to defend me. And here I was… trying to steal time alone with his girl.
My grip tightened on the wheel until my knuckles ached.
“I just wanted to get you out safely,” I muttered. “I’m sure Peter will make sure he’s fine.”
“God, I feel awful. I… I…” She trailed off, finally turning toward me.
Her eyes shimmered with tears, and it felt like someone punched me in the gut. A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it, and my hand reacted before I could think—reaching up to wipe it away, forcing me to lean closer to her.
“Hey. What’s wrong?” My voice came out softer than I intended. The thought of someone scarring her—touching her—when I wasn’t looking made rage flicker back to life in my chest. “Talk to me, Harper.”
She tilted her head like she wanted to lean into my touch, then caught herself. Straightening, she turned away to wipe another tear.
“I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be with you,” she whispered.
Pain stung through my chest, sharp and humiliating.
“I get it,” I said quietly.
I reached into my pocket for my phone, intending to call Peter, when I noticed our hockey group chat blowing up. A new notification popped up: an image of me mid-fight, fist flying toward the redhead. I tapped on it, opening the group chat to see another image of Peter, Jax, Mark, Kane—everyone frozen in the chaos, captured in the act of fighting. Below it was a single message from Coach Turner:
Team meeting first thing in the morning.
And Mercer—you better fucking show up.
Shit.
Harper’s rejection. And now this.