Page 74 of Her Name in Red
I slam to a stop, showering him with ice. “If you can't keep up, maybe you should sit the fuck down.”
His face goes slack with surprise, then hardens. “What's your problem today?”
“My problem is carrying dead weight,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. The rink goes quiet.
Coach steps between us. “Rhodes, take a lap. Cool off.”
I don't argue, just push away and circle the rink, aware of the eyes following me.
When I rejoin the group, we break into scrimmage teams. Red versus white. Coach puts me on red with Murphy, Diaz, Wilson, and Smith. I take my position at center, facing off against Sanderson.
“Ready to get your ass handed to you?” he smirks, adjusting his grip on his stick.
I don't answer, just lock eyes with him until his smile falters. When Coach drops the puck, I don't just win the face-off—I drive my shoulder into Sanderson's chest, sending him sprawling onto his back.
“Fuck!” he shouts as I take possession, already driving toward their goal.
I don't slow down. The goal is in my sights, and I deke around Perkins like he's standing still, then fire the puck past our goalie's glove. It slams into the back of the net with a satisfying thwack.
“The fuck got into you?” Perkins pants, staring at me like I've grown a second head.
I just tap my stick against his shin pads and skate back to position. “Maybe you're just getting slower.”
Coach blows his whistle again. “Again! And someone fucking check Rhodes this time!”
They try. God, they try. Martinez comes at me with his shoulder lowered, and I spin away at the last second, sending him crashing into the boards. Williams tries to pin me against the glass, but I slip through his grasp like water, leaving him cursing.
“Stop dancing and play some fucking hockey!” I bark at Murphy when he hesitates with the puck. I'm on him in an instant, stealing it and sending him sprawling with a check that's just on the edge of clean.
“What the hell, man?” he spits, scrambling to his feet. “We're on the same fucking team!”
“Then keep up,” I snarl, already halfway down the ice.
I can feel them all watching me, confusion and irritation rolling off them in waves.
I score four more times before Coach calls a water break. The other guys give me a wide berth as they skate to the bench, muttering under their breath.
“Rhodes,” Coach says, his voice low as I gulp down water. “Whatever you're on, dial it back before someone gets hurt.”
I meet his eyes, wiping sweat from my brow. “Not on anything, Coach. Just focused.”
When we resume, he puts me against our top defensive line. “Let's see how focused you really are, Rhodes.”
I smile, feeling the stretch of my lips like it belongs to someone else.
The rest of practice is a bloodbath. I play like I've got nothing to lose, because honestly, what's a broken bone compared to a man's life? What's a penalty compared to the weight of a body being dragged across wet pavement? Nothing matters except the ice beneath my skates and the puck on my stick.
The locker room is quiet afterward. Guys who've known me for years are giving me sideways looks, keeping their distance. I can feel their eyes on the bruises on my neck as I strip down for the shower, but no one has the balls to ask.
“Rhodes.” Coach's voice cuts through my thoughts. “Office. Now.”
I follow him down the corridor, past the trophy cases filled with championships from decades past. His office smells like coffee and old equipment—a scent that used to feel like home.
“Sit,” he orders, closing the door behind us.
I remain standing.
His eyes narrow, but he doesn't push it. “What the hell was that out there?”
