Page 68 of Jaded

The biggest guy in their lineup barrels towards Twenty-Three like a charging bull seeing red. Like he plans to tackle him to the ice, not even bother with a fight.

My feet are already moving. But I’m too far. Twenty-Three’s between me and the attack, and I won’t reach him in time.

The crowd’s frenzy nearly raises the roof, and Twenty-Three has no idea—

“Look out!” I roar as the Bull dives.

Twenty-Three turns—spins neatly aside, pirouetting out of the rampager’s path with the breathless grace of a ballerina. Which leaves nothing between me and the Bull.

The Bull skids, trying to keep his feet as he reassesses. His head swivels, gaze redirecting towards Twenty-Three—who’s still waving at the crowd like an offending player didn’t just try to kill him—but I slide my body between the two.

My gloves hit the ice. “Wanna play, motherfucker?”

He growls, lunges.

My fist swings, knuckles taste blood.

His teammates drag him, slobbering, off the ice.

“No mercy for the dumb, eh?” Twenty-Three asks, scooting up next to me. This close, there’s a soft smell beneath the typical ferment of sweat masked only lightly by heavy laundry detergent. Familiar? I can’t tell.

“Not for jackasses like that,” I agree, and then three new players step onto the ice.

Twenty-Three and I make quick work of this game too. Our third teammate bumbles around behind us, occasionally knocking somebody out of the way or starting a minor fight in our wake.

We ricochet passes between us, fast enough no one can keep up. We leave defenders and goalies alike in our metaphorical dust. We rack up goals so fast we run out of competition before the night’s over.

Without warning, we’re standing in the middle of the arena, the crowd a riot around us, watching our last beaten opponents stumble from the ice. But this time, no one comes to replace them.

It’s just the three of us, staring out over a frothing ocean of people.

“Holy shit,” says my second teammate, his voice raw with surprise. “We won. We won the Ice Out. We just won the fuckingIce Out.”

“Shit.” My voice matches his for bald-faced awe. “I’ve never made it to the end before. Nice job, man.”

We bump fists. I turn to congratulate Twenty-Three, but he’s already skating away. His hands lifted—riling the crowd up again.

“Yeah, you like that?” he roars, holding his arms wide. “You wanna see more?”

The crowd’s roaring its approval. Screaming and stomping and banging on the boards. And I can only watch, transfixed. How could I not? Someone who skates like he does, who has hands like his, someone like that wasbornto be watched.

My breath catches as I realize—

“You wanna know who I am?” Twenty-Three hollers, and I want to scream at him,no, no don’t do it, because obviously a newcomer like him wouldn’t know how things are done around here.

But he’s already lifting up his jersey to reveal another beneath it. Sky blue and navy, with a dingo’s head plastered across the front. It’s just a practice jersey—no name or number—but the meaning’s clear enough.

“You wanna know who I am?” he roars again, and the crowd screams its approval.

Of course they want to know. They want to break this one rule, the single rule of the show, because he’s a Dingo . . . but he’s also here. One ofus. One of the people—not just another California transient.

He’s one of us. And one of us is a Dingo. And fuck if they don’t crave to know where the crossover lies.

“Come to the Dingoes game tomorrow night,” Olli James says, his voice like a bird on wing through that crowd. “Come watch one of your own.”

And then, he turns towards me, and even through the mask, it’s so easy to identify his bright smile. He slings an arm across my shoulders, like we’re teammates, best friends.

Which of course, the crowd will assume . . . That I’m another Dingo lurking amongst their ranks. Us and them, we . . . all of it more twisted up than they realized.

---