Page 149 of Off-Ice Misconduct
The puck drops again, I win, passing back to Shep, who’s ready for me to send it sweetly to his stick. That’s good because I’m slammed into the boards by North Point’s defense, spine to glass.
“Stay down. You play better from the ice.”
“At least my team doesn’t play like it’s their first time in skates.”
And that’s the first fight of the game. I get two minutes for roughing—worth it. For the rest of the first period, I bait them, draw their defense like sharks to blood, then turn and feed my line the puck with sharp passes.
But it’s just my night or something, because the puck finds its way back to me like my stick’s a magnet for it, and I score two goals before the end of the first.
With the score shining a bit fat goose egg at North Point, they head off to the locker room between the first and the second, demoralized, heads hanging. Coach is quiet. That’s weird. We’re kicking some major ass. He should be happy. I know he’smarried to the North Point captain, and his sour mood could be easily explained by “feeling bad” that his husband is losing hard. But I also know it’s a marriage of convenience and that Coach is way too fucking competitive to care about shit like that.
Something else is up. I can’t worry about it, though. I’m in the zone. This is my game.
The second starts off with a vengeance. North Point answers back with two goals, one by their overly large captain, and the other from a right winger, Shane Murray. The score’s too close to coast, and they’re biting back hard.
Ryan’s stick slashes accidentally on purpose under my skates, sending me flying. Where are the refs in this game? Already in the off-season golfing? Because does he get a penalty? No. Such fucking bullshit. Fine. Guess that means taking my own piece of him.
I wait for the next faceoff, passing the puck back to Bender, and then I toss down my stick, shed my gloves, and go. Helmets fall to the ice. Fist meets jaw. There’s a wet sound and a chokedhnnkas Savage’s head spins right and upward. Blood sprays onto the ice. He bit into his lip. That’s not gonna make Coach too happy with me, but fuck him, and fuck Ryan.
Ryan stumbles back, he recovers fast and throws a hit that glances off my cheek. The man punches like a sledgehammer. Damn that hurt. He swings again, I duck, and I hope Luke saw that from wherever he is—some of his boxer training put to good use. Then I drive my shoulder into his chest, and we go down in a heap, heads almost cracking together. His hand fists my jersey, yanking me forward.
We roll across the ice like angry cats until we finally get a damn whistle. Half the crowd is screaming, the other half booing. The refs get their hands on us, pulling us apart, dragging us to the box.
That’s this hockey game. We rack up the penalty minutes and don’t score any more goals. The score sits at three two us as we whittle down to the last two minutes of the game. North Point getting increasingly frustrated that they can’t get one by Lars.
Blood leaks into my right eye, and the taste of copper fills my mouthguard. We’re clinging to the lead, but barely—they’ve played hard enough they could tie it. Every second is nail-biting.
Savage is still on the ice, bruised and pissed off.
Good.
They pull the goalie. Empty net. More bodies in the zone.
I whack my stick on the ice, and we tighten the defense, passing it between us, trying to get it out of our zone. One wrong move, one interception, and we’re tied. I don’t want this game to go to overtime. It’s time to finish it.
Savage barrels toward me with murder in his eyes. I pass the puck and take the hit without flinching. He slams into me, my helmeted head crushed against the boards. Shit. Where did it go? Where the fuck did the puck go?
Shoving him off me, I turn and see something beautiful. Shep has the puck and open ice. He shoots it toward the empty net.
Goal.
The horn sounds, and the team’s jumping, helmets and sticks flying, the rest of our guys flying off the boards, ramming into the mob.
But not me.
Ryan loses it. My head meets ice—thank fuck for helmets, amiright?—but something’s oddly familiar about the fall. The edges of my vision blur for several seconds, but I still feel the relentless pounding against my cage. I think he’s … yep, Ryan’s trying to get to my face through the cage of my helmet.
His hands are gonna suck later.
I make a sleepy attempt to get up, but it’s hard with two-hundred-and-some-odd pounds of Ryan, beating the shit out ofme. There’s an ugly crack and a crunch. My ribs. That fucking cocksucker. Just wait until I get up. I’m gonna, and then I’m gonna make him regret breathing.
Everything finally comes roaring back—the lights, the crowd, the chill off the ice, which I’m still on. What’s that … what’s the red shit everywhere? I roll my head side to side. Wait a minute, my helmet’s gone. When did that happen?
Slowly, I sit up. Everyone’s around me—the medics and the team—and I look around, bewildered. Everything’s on pause … I guess while they figure out if I’m dead or not.
Nah. Not today. It’s gonna take a lot more than Ryan Savage to take out Ace McfuckingKinnon.
I lift my fist in the air, letting out a victory cry. The rowdy hockey crowd answers back with vengeance, wanting Ryan’s blood as much as I do.
