Page 110 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
The silence that follows is suffocating. Everyone is staring at us now, not even pretending to mind their own business.
"This is bullshit, Liam," I say quietly. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
"Neither did I."
Coach bursts through the door, whistle already in his mouth. "What the hell is going on in here? We've got practice in ten minutes, and you two are having a therapy session?"
"Nothing, Coach," Liam says, grabbing his helmet. "We're good."
But we're not good. Not even close.
Practice is a disaster from the start. Coach runs us through drills, and Liam and I keep ending up paired against each other. Every time, there's this edge to it—too much contact, too much aggression, skating the line between competitive and violent.
During a two-on-two drill, Liam checks me hard into the boards. Legal hit, but unnecessary. I shove him back, and suddenly we're face to face, gloves still on but tempers flaring.
"Problem?" he asks.
"Yeah. You."
"Feeling's mutual."
Coach blows the whistle. "Richardson! Murphy! Knock it off!"
We separate, but the tension doesn't dissipate. It builds through every drill, every passing exercise, every moment we're forced to be in the same space. The rest of the team can feel it—guys are skating carefully around us, giving us space, watching like we're bombs about to detonate.
Then we’re doing a scrimmage. I'm carrying the puck up the ice, and Liam comes at me with a hit that's way too high, catching me in the shoulder and sending me sprawling. Coach’s whistle shrieks, but I'm already up, dropping my gloves.
"What the fuck was that?" I shove him.
"A hit. Maybe if you weren't so soft—"
I don't let him finish. My fist connects with his jaw, and suddenly we're both dropping gloves, grabbing each other's jerseys, throwing punches. The ice is slippery under my skates, but adrenaline keeps me upright. I get him in the ribs, he catches me across the cheek, and then the guys are pulling us apart.
"Enough!" Coach roars, skating between us. "Both of you, off the ice! Now!"
My chest is heaving, knuckles already starting to ache. Liam's got a split lip, and there's murder in his eyes.
Coach follows me in, face red with rage. "What the hell was that, Richardson?"
"He came at me—"
"I don't care who started it! You're co-captains of this team. You're supposed to lead by example, not brawl like you're in a bar fight during goddamn practice!" He's pacing, trying to calm himself down. "I don't know what's going on between you two, and frankly, I don't care. But you figure it out, or you both ride the bench. Understood?"
"Yes, Coach."
"Go home. Cool off. I'll see you at practice tomorrow, and you better have your shit together."
He storms out, leaving me alone in the locker room with my bleeding knuckles and racing heart. I sit on the bench, head in my hands, trying to process what just happened.
I fought my best friend. Threw actual punches at him in the middle of practice. Over what? Pride? Harper? A year's worth of unresolved bullshit that neither of us knows how to fix?
My phone buzzes. A text from Harper.
Harper:This is going to be my hardest class ever.
I stare at the message, not sure how to respond. Do I tell her that I got into a fistfight with Liam? By the feel of my face, I can’t hide it.
Me:Practice was rough. Tell you about it when I get home.
