Page 65 of Puck Me Secretly

Someone set me down on unsteady legs. I blinked up at Max. Around me chaos ensued. The Wolves rained punches on the men on the other side of the fence. Baxter screamed. Police and security valiantly tried to break everyone up.

I burst into tears.

Max scooped me up into his arms. I covered my face with my hands while he walked me outside towards the bus. He sat me down on one of our boxes. One trainer rushed over.

“Is she cut?”

Max carefully pulled my hands off my face. Concerned blue eyes stared into mine. “I think she’s only shaken up.”

“Is that her blood?”

“No.”

The trainer opened one of our Medi-kits. “Rory, we’re going to clean you up.”

“Sorry,” I managed.

Max grimaced. “For what?”

“Everyone is fighting.”

“This wasn’t your fault.”

I nodded, but tears continued to leak down my face. I felt horrible about what had transpired. One by one, players came trickling out of the stadium. Most of them were bleeding. After the most brutal game, they ended up getting into another brawl, because of me.

The trainers moved into motion. They butterfly taped cuts, provided gauze for nosebleeds and checked pupils for concussions.

Baxter strode out of the stadium with a bloody nose and a ripped suit jacket. He stopped and pointed at me. “This is your fault, and this is why there is no place for women in hockey.”

My eyes dropped to the ground. I was the only woman, sitting amongst the wounded, men who had all taken part in a brawl because the opposing team had mauled me.

“That’s bullshit,” some player called. “I was hoping to get into it with the fans.”

“Yeah me too.”

“That fight was the best part of my night.”

Oh geez. I fought more tears as these men, this team, stood up for me.

Max put a familiar hand on the back of my neck. “Why don’t you go get on the bus?”

I nodded and avoiding eye contact with everyone, I climbed onto the bus. I crawled into my seat when something outside caught my eyes. Max was toe-to-toe with Baxter and he wasn’t backing down. Baxter screamed. Max responded with a look so lethal it scared me. Apparently, it scared Baxter too because he shook his head and walked off.

I huddled in my seat and held the ice pack to my cheek. I still felt like crying, but because everyone had come to my defense, I sucked it up hard and put on a brave face. No one spoke when they got onto the bus. We drove in complete silence to the airport.

When we got to the airport, we found out that our flight had been delayed due to shit weather. Usually, when we waited for a flight, our team took up residence in the airport bar. Not tonight. Everyone hunkered down in the private security room provided by the airport. The bruised and cut faces of the players gave the impression that they had been to war and lost.

On the corner TV, the sports channel played.

“And now some breaking news from Minnesota, where the Wolves get into a brawl with angry fans.”

“Turn it up,” someone yelled.

Players stood and watched the screen.

There we were. Walking out of the green room. I looked like a tiny child, surrounded by massive hockey players. And then, for everyone to see, Baxter rushed up behind me, knocking me without care against the fence. Big men, from the other side, reached and grabbed, trying to haul me over the fence.

Max appeared out of nowhere. He somehow shielded me from the worst, holding my body while using one hand to fight off those that worked to pull me over. His fist reigned blows on surprised faces. Responding fists connected with his face, yet he never let go. He kept punching until those angry hands let go. Other players scrambled to get into the mix. Fists flew. Blood sprayed. And then the camera zoomed back to the reporter.

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