Page 54 of Barn Burner
I nod, and he nods back at me, then turns to address the rest of the team.
“We will win this game for Jesse. We will make sure he has something good to look forward to at the end of this day.”
My eyes sting with unshed tears, but I quickly blink them away and drop my chin to my chest. My mouth twists as my emotions threaten to bubble over. After a few concentrated breaths through my nose, I glance back up at my captain and manage a half smile. “Thanks.”
He winks. “Let’s go win this for your man.”
The game against Nashville isn’t going the way we hoped it would go, and it’s partly because of me. We’re ten minutes into the third period, and I’ve had more penalty minutes in this game than I had for the entirety of last season. I’m a fucking mess, and it doesn’t help that I’m allowing someone to get under my skin with his childish chirps.
Rafferty has been a thorn in my side since my rookie year, but it seems today he’s made it his mission to piss me the fuck off.
And unfortunately, it’s working.
Lining up for the face-off, I keep my eyes glued on the space between the ice and where the referee is holding the puck. The second it drops, I get my stick on it and pass it through my legs to Petrov, who passes it to Davis. We’re fighting to be the first ones to score a goal, but Nashville’s goalie is like a boulder, and nothing is getting past him.
I end up in the corner, using my skate to try and block one of Nashville’s hotshot forwards from getting possession. Petrov is behind me, poking his stick between my legs. He manages to get the blade of his stick on the puck, and I lift my skate enough for him to take it. The huddle of players in the corner dissipates, but Rafferty doesn’t move.
“How does it feel knowing you’re not the superstar you thought you were?” He snickers. “Bet the Bobcats regret you big time. Waste of fucking money.”
While it’s not the worst chirp he’s spewed tonight, it’s the dig into the sore spot he’s been prodding all night. But it’s what follows that has me seeing red.
With both hands on his stick, he cross-checks me in the chest, and the force behind it causes me to stumble back. Every rational thought leaves my mind, and I allow the true weight of my emotions to rise to the surface. I drop my gloves along with my stick onto the ice and grab a fistful of his jersey. He must not be expecting me to react because his eyes widen in surprise.
I usually avoid all conflict on the ice. I leave that for my teammates.
But I’m not thinking clearly tonight. The man I love is lying in a hospital, and I don’t know how the fuck he is, and this asshole has been getting on my last nerve.
My fist collides with his face, and I quickly follow up with an uppercut that has him letting out a choked noise. He throws his own punches to my ribs and catches me in the side of my jaw, but the pain is nothing to how ravaged I feel right now.
“You fucking asshole,” I spit out and manage to land another hit before we’re broken up. William tries to pull me away, but I leer over his shoulder at Rafferty, who has blood pouring from his nose. “Do you look me up while you’re lying in bed at night? Have a little cry that you’ll never be as good as me? Must be a sad fucking life you lead that you wear your jealousy like a fucking paper crown out of a Christmas cracker. Weak and fucking pathetic!”
“That’s enough!” the referee shouts. “Get to the box, now!”
Shrugging William’s hands off me, I grab my stick and gloves off the ice and skate over to the penalty box. I slump onto the bench and glare up at the jumbotron as it shows a replay of me losing my shit. My face aches from the jab Rafferty landed, and when I stick my tongue out the corner of my mouth, I taste blood.
It’s no surprise I’m given a five-minute penalty for fighting for the first time in my career, but the entire time I sit there, shame washes through me.
Jesse’s going to be so disappointed in me. This is the last thing he needs while he’s going through whatever it is he’s going through, and here’s me only adding to his worries by letting some petty wanker get the better of me.
When the time runs out, I step out of the box and skate back to the bench without looking at any of my teammates. I don’t need to see their look of pity or frustration. This is so out of character for me, and I know I’ll pay the price when Coach Keller gets a chance to grill me.
Luckily, Petrov manages to score the first goal of the game, and we use the final minutes working hard on our defense to make sure Nashville doesn’t get the chance to even up the score. I let out a heavy sigh when the timer runs down, and as soon as the game ends, I’m the first one off the bench and heading back to the locker room.
I strip out of my gear in silence, aware of the concerned glances being spared my way. I change into my workout gear and grab my headphones from my bag, then make my way out into the corridor where we have a row of exercise bikes. I go through my post-game routine, keeping my eyes glued on my phone screen, willing it to light up with a notification from any of the Huxley clan with an update.
But it doesn’t come.
By the time I hit the showers, the emotions that I’ve been riding on all night start to evaporate. I feel hollow the longer I don’t hear anything.
They say no news is good news, right? So I need to believe that is the case with this.
Dipping my head beneath the spray, I hiss when the hot water hits the cut on my face.
Yeah, Jesse is going to be so pissed that I got myself hurt.
“Nielson,” Coach Keller calls out as I turn off the shower. “When you’re dry, come find me.” His tone doesn’t sound angry.If anything, he sounds dejected, but it still doesn’t ease the dread sitting in the pit of my stomach.
“Yes, Coach,” I reply.
