Page 34 of Jaded

But we know better than to ask too many questions.

The three men assigned to those numbers stand on skate-clad feet and march towards the door. Sticks in gloved hands, masks and bandanas obscuring faces, they march through the door to meet their fates.

The crowd beyond explodes.

Something in me does too. Like a moth to the flame, I’m drawn to that sound, that excitement, that lust for the game. It’s different, so fucking different, from the topside world, but still. It calls me.

I hold my breath for the next round of numbers. “Sixty-Three! Fifteen! Forty-Seven!”

The air escapes my lungs in awhoosh. Butterflies of nervous excitement take flight in my gut as I stand. My gloved hand reaches out forthe stick, the dried leather stiff and unforgiving beneath my palm against the smooth composite.

“Call me Batman,” says the guy in front of me—number Sixty-Three. Wearing, yes, a smooth black mask with tiny ears just peeking over his head. “You can be Robin.”

“Sure.” I shrug. I don’t give a fuck what they call me, so long as it’s notTaylor. So long as nobody knows who I really am. Mine's a plain black ski mask, nothing creative or inventive here.

“And what am I, the Eggman?” the other man asks, smirking behind the twisted grin of what is clearly a Joker mask.

“You’re my bro for the night.” Batman punches him in the shoulder. “Don’t fuck it up for me tonight, boys. I plan to make it back next week.”

“Aye aye, Cap.” Eggman salutes over the top of his mask. “Let’s go kick some ass.”

Batman takes the lead, and Eggman follows. I bring up the rear, slip through the door behind my two makeshift teammates and into the vast cavern of the arena.

The crowd detonates in a whirlwind cacophony of cheers and boos and shouts, swearing and taunts, threats and promises. But I barely hear them. I barely see them. I don’t even smell them. They fade to a frothing background sea of color and sound and scent.

I have senses only for the ice.

It’s an arctic tundra of smooth promise stretched out before my feet. It’s a sharp cut of cold inside my nostrils, laced with the lingering dregs of sweat and blood and decay. It’s the scratch and scrape of blades on ice, the slap of stick on puck, the smash of puck against the dented wooden boards surrounding the arena.

It's a glimmer of white beneath the faded overhead lights—dangerous and alluring, like a maiden cloaked in shadow wielding a soft smile.

Six skaters dominate its surface in a whirlwind of jerseys and jeans, gloves and masks, like a pickup game and a robbery all in one.

Illicit and alluring, just like the ice.

Blood splatters one man’s jersey. The shards of a wooden stick litter the far corner. The boards surrounding the ice are dented, gouged, chipped, stained with red and black—all marking the places once-whole bodies broke against its surface.

The Ice Out isn't hockey. No one who comes here is under that illusion—it’s why the games are invite only. It’s why even the crowd is darkened and hardened and sharp-edged, just like the skaters on the ice.

The Ice Out isn’t hockey. It’s fucking hell.

It’s three-on-three randomly picked teams fueled and funded by hundreds of illegal bets . . . and so much blood. Blood and pain and desperation, because only the winners take home a prize.

It’s as much a show as it is a sport.

The only true rule of the Ice Out is, you stay on the ice until you lose. Everything else is anything goes . . . and who gets invited back next week depends on who wins games, fights, or simply the support of the crowd.

Said crowd circles the ice, frothing in a tidal wave of thrusting hands and stomping feet, drunken elbows and wildly thrown fists. They size us up as we queue along the boards, making rapid-fire judgments to place rapid-fire bets.

Just like they did for the six men already racing over the ice, trying to be the first team to make it to three goals. Trying to win the crowd’s favor. Trying to earn their place for another night.

But mostly, just trying to stay alive and whole. Or, mostly whole. I glimpse a tooth on the floor by my feet.

“Yo.” Charlie’s deep voice precedes his presence at my side. He wears a bulky black hoodie, the hood pulled up. “I bet on you, Number Forty-Seven. Better not let me down.”

I’d flash him the finger, but my gloves won’t allow for such dexterity, so I give him a hearty “fuck off” instead. “Don’t you have practice tomorrowmorning?”

“Nah, afternoon.” Charlie grins, teeth white in the shadows of his hood. “I placed a bet for you too, Charming.”

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