Page 26 of Icing the Cougar
I get back on late in the second. Badger comes flying into the corner and rams me from behind, putting his stick up in my ribs. I whip around and catch him in the visor with the butt of my stick. He staggers, then laughs, and drops the gloves right there.
We go at it. Gloves off, helmets thrown. The crowd loses their mind. He’s all teeth, grinning, daring me to do it. I land the first punch. He lands the next five. My knuckles are bleeding, my nose is gushing, but I don’t care. I want him to hurt. I want to shut him up forever.
I pin him to the ice and keep swinging until the linesmen drag us apart. My ears are ringing, vision gone red and white. They go to shove us into the box, but the asshole he leans forward towards me and says, so nobody else can hear, “She’s not gonna want you when she knows. Nobody ever does.”
The ref comes over, says something, but I’m not listening. I’m locked on Badger, seeing every second of my old life flash behind his eyes. The fights. The nights in the cell. The fear that I’ll always be the same guy I was at sixteen.
With one swift move, I punch him straight in the jaw, knocking him on his ass.
The refs swarm me and toss me from the game for fighting. As I’m walking off, I hear a boo from the crowd, then a chant: “Wright! Wright! Wright!” Some of them are on my side. Most are just here for the spectacle. The one person that matters though, I can’t tell if she is cheering or hiding.
In the tunnel, my hands are shaking so bad I can barely unlace my skates. I find the first empty spot in the locker room and start stripping down, jersey off, pads tossed into the corner, helmet still leaking blood onto the floor. The medic comes in and tries to look at my face, but I wave him off.
“I’m fine,” I bark.
He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Don’t get blood on the gear.”
I slump onto the bench, head in my hands. The silence is brutal. I can still hear Badger in my head, his words gnawing at everything I’ve built. He’s right. I never talk about my past. I barely opened up to Trinity a few days ago about a little of it. The past is supposed to stay dead, but it never does.
I wonder what she’s thinking. If she saw the fight, if she’s disgusted, if she’s already walking out of the arena, deleting my number. I want to call her, tell her it’s not what it looked like, but it is. It always is.
The rest of the team files in after the game is over, most of them ignoring me, a few giving me the side-eye. Riley sits two stalls down, pulls off his own gear, and gives me a long look. “You okay?”
“Peachy.”
He hesitates. “You know he’s an asshole, right?”
I nod, not trusting myself to talk.
“He’s not worth it,” Riley says. “Don’t let him get to you.”
“Too late.” My lip splits on the words.
Riley doesn’t say anything else. I hear the shower turn on, the low grumble of voices from the hallway, the clatter of pucks as someone clears the bench. I stare at my hands, blood still bubbling up through the cuts, and wonder how many more fights it will take to finally change who I am.
My phone buzzes in my locker. I can’t bring myself to look at it. Not yet.
I sit there, breathing, until the room is empty.
Then I finally stand up, walk to the sink, and rinse the blood from my face. The water runs red, then pink, then clear. I lean against the counter, staring at my own eyes in the mirror. I lookexactly like my old man. Exactly like every mugshot I ever swore I’d never take.
I want to put my fist through the glass, but I know it wouldn’t help.
Then I think about Trinity. If she’ll forgive me. If she’ll still wear my jersey, or if she’s already left it on her seat for someone else to pick up.
My phone buzzes again.
This time, I look.
It’s her. Just one line, short and sweet.
Trinity: You okay?
I don’t know how to answer. I want to say yes. I want to say no. I want to tell her everything, but I’m afraid she’ll never look at me the same way again. Instead…
Me: Come down to the locker room. I’ll tell security to let you through.
I wait.
