He was going to fucking kill him.

All he had to do was watch. All he had to do was wait and bide his time then take the chance when it came.

And it came near the end of the second period.

The Bombers struggled for the first thirty minutes of the game, barely managing to get one on the scoreboard. Tyler had struggled right along with them, allowing two on Bridgeport's fifteen shots. His head wasn't in the game, not even close. He'd had his ass handed to him by Kolchak during the first intermission. Fair enough—the rest of the team had received the same treatment in the locker room. It was the same shit they'd heard the last seven games: stick to the plan, strengthen their defense, don't let the lines break down. Get in there and fucking win, dammit.

Rah rah, yee-fucking-hah.

Tyler didn't give a shit. Not tonight. Tonight, he wanted blood. As long as Torresi didn't pull him. As long as Tyler did just enough to stay in the net. That's all he wanted—stay in the game long enough for a chance to take Krasnoff down.

Play moved out of the neutral zone as the puck raced toward him. Tyler bounced on his feet, crouching low before swinging the stick behind him and tapping the pipes. The second line was exhausted, they'd been out on the ice for too long, unable to make a line change because they couldn't fucking clear the puck. Ben, red-faced and dripping sweat, raced after the puck. Got his stick on it, knocked it loose.

Couldn't clear it.

Tyler shifted, watching as play moved behind the net. Jason and Harland struggled, each one digging for the puck as it shot into the corner. Still not good enough. And here came Krasnoff, fresh from a line change, adding his bulk to the fight for the puck.

He got it loose, spun around and shot it toward the net.

Not this time, fucker.

Tyler reached out with his glove hand, snagged it mid-air, brought it to his chest and huddled over it. The whistle blew, stopping the play, moving the face off right in front of him.

Now. Now was his chance. Just a few more seconds—

Both teams lined up for the face off, Jason and Krasnoff going head-to-head. The Russian had been chirping Jason all night, getting into Jason's head.

No, not chirping. This was beyond chirping. Tyler could hear him, the heavily accented words carrying to the net.

"Your sister have sweet pussy, yeah?"

"Fuck you."

A laugh, cold and filled with ridicule.

"You know how your sister scream for me? Always scream. Always ask for more."

"Go to hell you little fucking Russian prick."

"Not so little. That why Jenny scream."

The ref muttered a warning, the words nothing more than an empty promise. Aaron tapped Jason on the back of the leg, muttering his own warning.

Krasnoff laughed, said something in Russian, then leered at Jason. "I have pictures. You want, no?"

Jason threw his stick to the ice and lunged at Krasnoff, catching the Russian on the chin with his fist. That was the only swing he got in because Krasnoff was faster, bigger. All hell broke loose on the ice. Equipment went flying as players went after each other. Grunts and insults hurled as fast and as loud as the punches being thrown. Tyler ignored it all, his eyes narrowed on Krasnoff. Watching, waiting.

Krasnoff got Jason in a headlock, holding him still long enough to yank the hem of his jersey over his head. Then he drew back and landed a solid punch to Jason's jaw, sending him to his knees.

Tyler raced out of the net, lunged at Krasnoff. The Russian spun around, laughter in his eyes as Tyler caught him in the shoulder. He didn't stop, kept swinging, each blow harder than the last until Krasnoff stumbled, lost his balance.

"Not yet, fucker." Tyler fisted one hand in the man's sweaty jersey and let loose. Teeth ripped the skin of his knuckles when he hit Krasnoff in the mouth. Tyler felt nothing but fury, his anger fueling each punch. Bone and cartilage crunched under his fist as one punch connected with Krasnoff's nose. Another punch caught him in the eye, forcing Krasnoff's head to snap to the side. Anger boiled in Tyler's veins, erupting in a frenzy of flying fists and hissed warnings. One after another, never stopping. One last punch, aimed for the man's already bloodied nose. Another one, aimed at his jaw—

Hands grabbed Tyler, pulling him away as something big and heavy tackled him to the ice. Tyler bucked, his back arching as he reached, tried to push off whatever the fuck was holding him down.

"Stop it. Just fucking stop it. Now." Zach's voice, low and furious, shattered the veil of red seizing Tyler. He stopped fighting, forced his body to remain still as he nodded, just once, to show Zach he understood. Seconds went by, each one marked by the pounding in Tyler's chest. Zach finally moved off him, grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet. Tyler grabbed the hem of his jersey and wiped it across his face, not surprised to see it come away smeared with red.

He looked around, his eyes quickly assessing the carnage spread around him. Damn near every player from both teams had been involved in the melee. Equipment was scattered everywhere, from the bench all the way to the bin. Blood smeared the ice, drops and puddles marking each individual fight. A cracked tooth rested near one puddle, close to where Krasnoff was being helped to his feet. Was it the Russian's? Tyler sure as hell hoped so.

He skated over to the net to retrieve his equipment, mildly surprised the fight had travelled to center ice. The refs were going to have a fucking field day sorting this one out. Tyler didn't give a shit. He'd done what he set out to do. Fuck everything else.

He skated over to the bench, not even bothering to look at Torresi as he stepped off the ice. He was out for the game, maybe out for the last few of the season. Who cared? It was worth it.

He paused before heading into the tunnel, his gaze searching the seats behind the bench. Jenny sat there, between Courtney and Megan, tears in her eyes.

Fuck. All three women had tears in their eyes. And Noah was huddled in his mother's arms, his face buried in her shoulder. Great. Just fucking great. Harland would make Tyler pay for that later, no doubt about it.

Whatever. Fuck it. He'd deal with it later. Right now, all he was worried about was Jenny. His heart slammed into his chest when their gazes caught and held. Horror filled her wet eyes, but there was something else there, too. He didn't know what, couldn't figure it out.

He'd worry about that later, too.

He held her gaze for a few more seconds, wondering what was going through her mind. He offered her a small smile and a nod of acknowledgement then hobbled his way down the tunnel.

Regretting nothing and knowing he'd do it all over again if given the chance.