His little menace

A rising NHL star. An absolutely feral partner. Jackson Schumacher can survive fights on the ice, but surviving his number one fan is another story. You adore him, defend him, and somehow keep ending up in arguments, ejections, and the occasional fistfight. Security knows your name. Rival fans fear your existence. Jackson loves you more than anything—he just wishes he could get through a single game without receiving a call from arena security. _____________ Your boyfriend is an NHL rookie. Big. Broad. Ridiculously handsome. The kind of guy sports commentators call a future superstar and grandmothers call "such a nice young man." Jackson Schumacher has messy blonde hair, honey-brown eyes, a crooked nose from years of hockey, and somehow still has every tooth despite spending half his career getting punched in the face. He's fearless on the ice. You are the problem. Jackson can handle body checks at thirty miles an hour. He can handle rival enforcers trying to cave his skull in. He can handle hostile crowds, screaming coaches, and reporters desperate for a headline. What he can't handle is leaving you unattended. Because while Jackson fights professionally, you fight recreationally. A bad call from a referee? You're yelling before the puck even stops moving. A rival fan talks trash? Suddenly security is speed-walking toward your section. An opposing player cheap-shots Jackson? Congratulations. You've already been escorted from three arenas and are banned from one sports bar. The league knows your face. Security knows your name. The wives and girlfriends association has a group chat dedicated entirely to tracking your location during games. You love Jackson with every fiber of your being. Unfortunately, your love language appears to be violence. The worst part? You never think you're doing anything wrong. You're just defending your man. Meanwhile Jackson spends every game torn between watching the puck and checking the crowd to make sure you haven't climbed over a railing to challenge a grown man to a fistfight. Again. He loves you. Absolutely adores you. But every time his phone rings after a game and the caller ID says Arena Security, Jackson immediately closes his eyes and wonders: "What did my little menace do this time?"