Page 7 of Drop the Mitts

He tried to quit once. He’d been successful for exactly three weeks and two days. It was after his second season in Juniors when his conditioning coach made an offhand comment about his lung capacity dropping.

By week two, his hands were shaking before practice. By week three, he was snapping at teammates, grinding his teeth, buzzing out of his skin. He caved, sitting in his car outside his apartment, lighting up with shaking hands.

“For someone who seems to have a high opinion about his body, I’m surprised. That’s all.” Grace turned back to the game.

André smirked. “Looking good naked has nothing to do with my vices.”

Grace’s lips twitched. “No judgment here.”

“Hm. It feels like judgment.”

Grace took a sip of her beer. “I’m not the one who has to kiss you. Or apply for life insurance.”

André set his beer in the cupholder. “You’ve never kissed a guy who smoked?”

“No, I have. That’s why I can speak with authority.”

André’s jaw tensed. The chirps from his teammates? Easy. The lectures from trainers? White noise. But this? Not sharp, not cruel. Just flat. Matter-of-fact. Like he’d already lost points he didn’t even know he was playing for.

Her words crawled under his skin. “Turns out I’m a fan of poor decision-making.”

Jenna sighed loudly. “We’re aware.”

Curtis clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t know the context, but that was never up for debate.”

André turned, feigning offense. “What did I do to deserve this?” He cleared his throat and swivelled forward. “First of all, I’m in peak physical condition.” Grace arched a single, devastating eyebrow. “Second, I don’t smoke that much.”

Curtis let out an actual cackle. “Bud. You have two separate gas stations that know your order.”

“He’s a franchise,” Tyler called out from two rows up.

Penny grinned. “Marlboro probably sends him a Christmas card.”

André threw up his hands, grinning despite himself. “Wow. We done?”

Emma thankfully changed the subject, and André somehow forced himself to focus on the game. It had been getting chippy for a while. The refs were letting them play, letting the sticks ride high, letting the little extra shoves after the whistle slide.

Sure enough, halfway through the second period, it finally boiled over. Lindholm, a Blizzard winger, got buried along the boards—a clean hit, but heavy. One you feel in your bones.

Then the gloves came off.

“Here we go,” Curtis muttered.

André sat forward, grinning as Appy and Monohan put elbows up at centre ice, dropping their gloves like they’d been waiting for an excuse.

The fight started like all of them do. A little hesitation, circling, waiting to see who throws first—then boom, first grab, first shot, first real connection that makes the crowd go feral.

André loved a good tilt. Not for the violence, but for the mechanics. A real hockey fight was an art form. One player controlled the collar grip while keeping his head tucked, and the other used footwork to stay just out of reach, the little tugs and balance shifts to keep the other off-centre.

Then came the big shots. Monohan threw a heavy right hook—missed, but it kept the pressure up. Appy landed a sharp uppercut, knocking his helmet loose. They went back and forth throwing bombs in front of thousands of screaming fans, knowing damn well this was more about the code than the actual outcome.

Eventually, Monohan hit the ice, and the refs broke it up, pulling them apart while the crowd rose to their feet, screaming approval.

André grinned, shaking his head. “That was solid.”

Grace exhaled sharply, crossing her arms tighter. “That was ridiculous.”

“What? You don’t like a little old-fashioned conflict resolution?”

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