Page 2 of Arrogant Puck

And then there’s a scream. My mom… somewhere in the stands, her voice recognizable, raw with terror.

I skate quickly and fall to my knees beside him before his body stops moving. Blood runs through my fingers when I grab his head, hot and thick and wrong. The puck left a crater in his skull, edges already turning black. Blood streams from his ears and nose, and when I force his eyes open, there’s nothing there.

Nothing.

“Archer.” I shake him hard, pat his cheek, fucking anything to make him wake up. “Archer!”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move. I don’t even think he’s fucking breathing.

The other players stand around us in a circle, but they might as well be ghosts. I look up at their faces—some concerned, some horrified, some already backing away like death is contagious.

Something inside my chest cracks open, spilling poison into my bloodstream. A sound tears from my throat that doesn’t belong to me.

“RAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

It echoes through the arena, bouncing off these fucking boards. The sound of something breaking that can never be fixed.

Hands grab at me—teammates, officials, someone trying to pull me away from my brother. I swing wildly, connecting with whoever’s closest, my knuckles splitting against someone’s face mask.

The reality hits me that I’m swinging like a madman and Archer still isn’t moving.

“GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”

More hands. Stronger grips. They’re trying to drag me backwards as medical officials rush to Archer. Someone is successful at pulling me away. The view of Archer limp on the ground is wrong. So fucking wrong.

“Archer! Get up!”

I fight the guy off like a rabid animal, clawing my way back to Archer. Through the chaos, I hear that piece of shit forward who took the shot, somewhere behind me, his voice cracking with panic.

“No, no, no, no—I didn’t mean—oh God, I didn’t mean—”

White-hot rage floods my system. I spin toward his voice, ready to tear his throat out with my bare hands, but the guys have me locked down tight.

“You killed my fucking brother!”

Every muscle in my body screams to kill him, to make him pay for what he’s done, but—

My mom’s scream cuts through everything else, raw and endless, the sound of a mother watching her child die as she runs towards us. She falls flat on her face from slipping on the ice. Isee the sheer panic on her face, and all the blood leaves my face. This is real. This is actually fucking happening.

Coach is at my side. “It was an accident, Slater. They’re going to do the best that they can.”

The best that can is a bunch of fucking nonsense because my brother’s dead. He’s lying there dead on the ice.

My mom reaches him and screams, holding her youngest son, begging and pleading for him to come back. My dad just stands there with a pale face, staring at Archer like he’s seen a ghost.

The paramedics swarm the ice now, their hands working frantically over Archer’s body. One of them looks up and shakes his head at his partner. That tiny gesture—barely perceptible—hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

“Archer!” I fight against the hands holding me as they lift him onto the stretcher. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

His head lolls to one side, lifeless. Blood has soaked through the white sheet they’ve wrapped around him. They’re moving fast now, too fast, wheeling him toward the tunnel that leads to the ambulance bay.

I break free and run after them, my skates slipping on the concrete floor. “Archer, you’re going to be okay,” I say to him, the words spilling out like a prayer. “You’re going to be okay. Archer, you’re strong. The strongest person I know.”

My mom and I jump into the ambulance, tears spilling without permission. I can’t meet her eyes. I can only watch as the medics continue to work on him.

The hospital waiting room smells stale and like disinfectant. I’ve been pacing for a full hour. Mom sits in a plastic chair, staring at nothing, her mascara streaked down her cheeks in black rivers. Dad stands by the window, his face carved from stone, hands clenched tight at his side.

“Fuck!” I mutter, running my hands through my hair for the hundredth time. “I shouldn’t have told him to punch that right wing. It was over nothing—some stupid shit about him being better than me.”

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