Penalty Kill

Jake

Standing in the lobby of a police station waiting to pick up my girlfriend is a life scenario I never would've dreamed of finding myself in. After chatting with one of the on-duty officers, who happened to be a not too disgruntled Storm fan, which helped immensely, he explained that the asshole who instigated the fight at the bar wasn't going to press charges, and Harper was free to go after being released.

After an autograph, picture, and a handshake, the officer disappeared into the back of the station to get Harper. With my hands tucked into the pockets of my sweats, I pace back and forth in the small waiting area until I hear footsteps and voices approaching. Looking up from the tiled floor, I try to fight the smirk that tugs at the corner of my lips.

She looks tired as all hell, annoyed, and simultaneously embarrassed beyond belief. After thanking the officer, who gives me one last wave and thanks of his own, she shuffles towards me with her gaze downcast. Her bashfulness tugs at my heart, and I immediately want nothing more than to make her forget this night ever happened.

"Felicia doesn't listen very well," she says more to her feet than to anything else. Her long blonde hair is sticking out from under my Storm hat I gave her at odd angles, obviously tousled from everything she's been through in the last several hours. She's got my jersey on under her jacket, and my eyes snag on a few dark spots which look an awful lot like dried blood.

"Imagine my surprise when I'm checking my phone after the game to find a string of texts from an unknown number explaining that you got into a bar fight, and that you need to be picked up from jail."

Rolling her eyes until they're closed, she sighs, digging her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket.

"She's a resourceful little shit, and I'm an idiot."

"Nah, you're just a 'passionate fan'. Did you at least get a good shot in?" I step towards her, my hands picking up the fabric of my jersey where the dark spots appear right on and around the white lettering of the word "Storm".

She nods, letting go of an exhale as looks at her shoes.

"I hope this isn't yours," I run my fingers over the spots staining the fabric before dropping it and moving to cradle her face in my hands instead. I make a mental note that she'll be needing a new jersey. "Did he get one in on you?"

My eyes examine every inch of her face as she still refuses to look up at me. Using the pads of my thumbs, I try to caress some peace and relaxation into her as I trace under her eyes with a light, soft touch.

"Just once—he barely grazed the side of my face before plenty of people stepped in between us."

My jaw clenches at the thought of some loud mouthed fuckhead throwing a fist at a woman for telling him to calm the fuck down. The thought of her defending me shoots a thrill down my spine, but the fact that it came at the cost of her spending a few hours in jail because she landed a good one on him makes my blood fucking boil.

I'm gonna figure out who this guy is, and I'm going to personally make sure he's not welcome at one of our games ever again, and let him know that his support is entirely unappreciated and unwanted. Not to mention if I happen to catch him out and about at night, I'll make sure he receives a one-of-a-kind Jake Bryers' black eye autograph.

Grinding my teeth together as hard as I can to keep back all the things I'm thinking about the piece of shit who tried to slug her, I instead bring a smile to my face and offer her the spot under my arm.

"What do you say we get out of literal jail and I'll take you home?"

She nods sheepishly, walking over to take her place next to me as I wrap my arm around her shoulders and tuck her in close. The thirty minute car ride to her place is quiet. I can tell she's in her own head, that her wheels are spinning about what happened tonight. I don't blame her, and I can't help but feel responsible for it.