Page 32 of Penalty Box
“Keep your head down, Calder,” Grayson shouted as we crossed paths. “They’re playing for whistles, not pucks.”
No shit.
The Nashville Predators weren’t known for clean hockey. They baited, flopped, and drew penalties like it was performance art. And tonight, they had a big audience.
“You good?” Shawn asked, barely glancing at me on the bench.
I nodded once, then caught the glare Coach shot down the line. I knew that look. It said: You screw this up, I’ll staple your ass to the boards myself.
Keep your filthy paws off my daughter.
I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in the lineup, and not with Cass. Definitely not with a torn intercostal I’d been keeping a secret.
But I was finally back on the second line.
“Predators are pulling their usual bullshit,” Grayson said as he skated up to the side. “They want a reaction, Coach.”
“Well, are you giving it to them?” He slapped the captain’s helmet so hard my own ears were ringing. “Get out there and take control of the game.”
Grayson skated off and Coach looked at me. “I’m not biting,” I said. But every part of me was one more shove away from exploding.
Too much good behavior was getting to me. I needed an outlet.
“Good,” Coach said. “You’re in.”
I pushed off the bench, ready to do some damage. So was Predator’s number twenty-two. The same guy who’d been yapping since the opening whistle.
“Look at you,” he said through his cage. “Still limping like a pussy. Must be all that strain from going viral. Tell me, does the daughter fuck as hard as her dad sucks at coaching?”
I kept my stick down. Jaw locked.
He skated in close. “When do we see the TikTok of your premature ejaculation, huh? Or maybe the one where she dumps you in high-def because you can’t cut the top line?”
The puck dropped. I didn’t say a word. The plan was to let the puck do the talking, and I kept my head in the play.
Until I didn’t have a choice.
A pass came wide, I chased it to the corner and twenty-two clipped my skate with the toe of his stick. He dropped like he’d been shot, flailing all the way down.
The whistle blew, ref’s arm up. “Tripping.”
The crowd lost their shit and unfortunately, so did we.
“Are you blind or just fucking stupid?” Grayson was right up in his face. “He sold out like Hamilton on Broadway!”
Coach was up on the bench now too, yelling at the fourth official. The veins in his forehead stuck out deep blue. But it didn’t matter.
“Two minutes in the box.” The ref looked exultant as he made the call. Unnecessary, but whatever.
I turned for the bench, rage curdling under my skin.
“That was a fucking dive,” Tucker shouted. Only our home crowd agreed with him.
There was no other response. Just glares. And the damn throbbing in my ribs.
Then came the shove. Our rookie D-man went full rage-buster on twenty-two, who fell to the ice again, writhing around in pain until another whistle blew. Another call.
We were down two men now.
