Page 75 of Scoring Position

This time in the scrimmage, Grange got the puck to Nico, but the defense cut him off from the net—that wastheir job—so Nico passed and Lefty backhanded it in.

The whistle blew. Coach turned a revolting shade of purple. “Something wrong with your ears, Kirschbaum?Slappers.” He skated past Ryan and cast him a poisonous look. “Tell your boyfriend to get his head out of your ass or I’ll make sure he never plays another game.”

Ryan’s stick and gloves hit the ice almost before the words registered. “What thefuckdid you just say?”

Vorhees gave him a nasty smile, skating backward as though daring Ryan to follow him. Ryan did, automatically. He’d punched bigger guys for less and right now he had itchy mitts.

Fuck it. Fuck this team and fuck Vorhees andfuckhis hockey career. It wasn’t worth putting up with this if he was just going to lose Nico and be miserable anyway.

But before he could get closer, Phil skated in front of him and pushed on his chest. “Ryan. Hey. Ryan. It’s not worth it, man, come on. Skate it off.”

He was right, it fuckingwasn’t. Ryan spat on the ice without breaking eye contact with Vorhees, who blew his whistle again and reset the play.

Ryan gritted his teeth as he watched. He didn’t know if anyone else had overheard—Phil, maybe, but probably no one else had been close enough. They’d all be wondering what happened.

Ryanwas still wondering what happened. Vorhees was an incompetent asshole who sucked in many ways, but this was an exciting new layer of douchebaggery.

Ryan was in the middle of an idle fantasy that involved a shot going wide andaccidentallycatching Vorhees in the jaw when Nico drew back for the slap shot he was supposed to take. The sound processed before the visual—the noise that followed the clap of the stick was a sharp curse and then the hollow echo of a twig hitting the ice and several curses.

And then Ryan realized Kitty had taken the shot in the hand, and his glove was on the ice, and there was blood dripping from the fingers he had cradled against his chest.

The trainers rushed out to help while the other players stood at a distance and watched in horror. Nico hadn’t moved. He was white as a sheet, his arms hanging loosely at his side.

Kitty cursed in Russian as Monica the trainer got to him and Nico shook out of his stupor. He went straight to Kitty and stumbled out something in Russian, but he gave way when Monica started asking questions.

Kitty gritted out something—was that even in English?

“He says it hurts, like, a—a lot,” Nico said, so apparently not.

As Monica tugged Kitty off the ice, Nico followed, murmuring in Russian and translating through what was undoubtedly intense pain on Kitty’s part.

Ryan caught Phil looking after Kitty and back to the group. The man seemed unsure of where to direct his attention, unlike Vorhees, who looked…. Ryan didn’t know how to describe it. He’d moved his features into the semblance of grim determination and dissatisfaction, but Ryan got the weird feeling that their coach washappyto have lost his star defenseman.

Vorhees called an end to practice and skated off the ice.

Phil turned to the players who remained to look after them. He started with the older guys, the ones who had probably seen as bad or worse, and ushered them off the ice with bracing words and promises to talk again before the day was out. He made sure Kitty’s d-partner got his gloves and stick—not necessary, but the guy was probably happy for a job, since Nico had stolen his place as secondary support. Ryan watched him for a few moments, then shook himself and turned to see what needed doing.

Chenner looked like he needed to process, so Ryan skated over.

“You okay?”

“There was so much blood.”

“Yeah,” Ryan agreed neutrally.

“Why was there so much blood?” He turned wide eyes on Ryan.

“Not sure. You’ve seen blood before,” Ryan said, hoping the reminder would help ground the kid.

“Split lips and bloody noses and once a cut on an eye. Not—I think I saw—when they skated past—did I see bone?”

He looked like he was going to puke, so Ryan pushed him toward the bench. Thank God for skates. He got the kid on the bench, took his helmet off, and pushed his head between his knees.

“Breathe, kid.” He patted his back.

“Everything okay over here?” Phil stood on the ice, watching with concern.

“Yeah.” Ryan didn’t think Chenner would appreciate him rehashing any details. “Just got too good a look.” Chenner shuddered under his hand, and Ryan patted him again.

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