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The image of Amelia with Sanders, him holding her, comforting her, kissing her … it’s all too much. In a heartbeat, my gloves and stick are on the ice. I swing my hand back and punch him in the face.

Sanders stumbles backward, almost falling on his ass, but he’s better than that. He crashes hard into the plexiglass. My hand hurts from the punch I gave him, so his face must hurt too, but the only thing that son of a bitch does is grin wider.

With his finger, he wipes the blood from his lip. “Can’t handle the truth, huh?”

I raise my hand to swing at him again, but this time he’s ready for me. I don’t expect any less from him.

His fist connects with the side of my face. My head jerks to the side with the force of the punch, pain spreading all over. I swallow the curse and get ready to go at him again, but then a few pairs of hands are pulling me back, and the same is happening to him.

The coach elbows his way between us, one of his hands gripping each of us by the hair on the back of our head.

“What the hell do you think you are doing on my ice?” he yells, spit coming out of his mount along with his raging fury. His whole face is red with anger and a vein on his forehead is pulsing.

Utter silence spreads through the rink. His anger is so palpable, nobody dares to breathe.

We did a lot of shit both on and off the ice, but there was always this one rule we never broke. Until now.

“I think I taught you better than that!” He is concentrating on Sanders and me, but when his eyes move through the rink, they don’t miss a single one of us. “Do you want to be a part of this family or not? Because if there is no instant answer for that question in your brain, you better turn and leave this ice right the fuck now. I don’t have time for shit like this. The ice rink is not a playground for little boys to have a pissing contest on. If you don’t plan to man up, leave. NOW!”

He is so close his words ring in my ears, but his hands show no mercy. I’ll probably have a bald spot on my head once his fingers untangle from my hair.

“Are you a Wolf?” We all murmur our agreements, but he’s not happy with that. “I didn’t hear you! Are you a Wolf?”

Our shouts echo in the empty rink.

“I’m glad to hear that, but we’ll see if you’ll still say so after this practice. Blitzkrieg! NOW!”

Did I mention our coach is also our history teacher? Yeah, well... And blitzkrieg, just as the name suggests, is one of our toughest drills, the one Coach pulls only on special occasions. Only this time, nobody dares to breathe the wrong way, let alone complain.

* * *

Once Coach decided we had enough of drills, he sent us home with stern, disappointed look. He didn’t have to say a word, the warning clearly written in his eyes was more than enough. We better not do this kind of shit again because there won’t be a next chance at redemption.

You’re not just one team, you’re a family. You can’t win in hockey if you play alone. If you wanted to be an individual you should’ve done figure skating. We rise together and we fall together. That’s been his mantra since he became the head coach of the Greyford High Wolfs.

Today, the whole team paid the price for our misconduct.

Nobody said a word as we left the ice and went to the locker room. Some guys went to take a regular, after practice shower, but most just took their shit and left.

Sweat is dripping from my body and I’m so tired I fear if I sit down there is no getting me up on my feet for a week.

At least.

I enter the stall and let the hot stream of water fall over me. My hands brace against the wall for support because the muscles in my legs burn after heavy exercise. I can feel muscles I wasn’t even aware existed.

Coach went hard on all of us, but especially Sanders and me.

Would it be too bad if I let my body slide down the tiles to the floor and stay like that until somebody comes and helps me find my life back?

Sighing, I stay under the shower for a while. Hot water falls heavy on my back, relaxing the sore muscles.

Once I feel human enough, strong enough to get out of the shower on my own and not crawling like a baby, I get out and find the locker room empty. I put on my clothes and go outside.

My blue, Cadillac SUV is waiting for me where I left it this morning. Going to the driver’s side I see a black bike parked next to it.

Sanders leaning against it, waiting.

“I’m too tired for this shit,” I grumble without looking at him.

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