Page 45 of Penalty Box
“I want to watch.” She shot to her feet, and held a hand out to me. Again, I showed her the state of my fingers and helped myself up. “Are you staying for the game?”
“Sure. I came all this way,” I said weakly, and followed her out of the workshop.
The rink felt different. I’d grown up catching games here with my dad, but it wasn’t the same. Even though it was totally unchanged.
We found seats near the glass just before puck drop. Hallie—she’d introduced herself on our way down—was practically buzzing.
The lights dimmed, and music pulsed. It was Kenny Chesny, and one more point to Mason. Shit. The crowd went wild as the boys hit the ice, focused and sharp.
“There he is!” Hallie’s fingers dug into my arm as she frantically pointed out her brother.
He flew across the ice like he was born for it. His legs pumped tirelessly, blade edges biting into the rink with every cut. Pride swelled in my chest. He had this way of pulling gravity with him, drawing the play where he wanted to go. Pass to Grayson. One-timer. Goal.
Hallie shrieked so loud it left my ear ringing. “That’s two in a row for the bromance,” she grinned, elbowing me. “Grayson and Mason need a couple’s name.”
It was hard to believe this manic fangirl was the same sarcastic and dry girl from a few minutes ago. She was a blast, though, and made me see the game through fresh eyes. But also mine, which, now that I had stakes on the ice, was kind of fresh too.
Midway through the second, Mason caught a pass, pivoted hard, and delivered a wicked assist that had the crowd on their feet. The guy was on fire.
And then everything shifted.
There was a whistle. A scramble. A Blizzards player, number sixteen, came out of nowhere and slammed Tucker into the boardshard. Sixteen was a big guy known for cheap shots, and this was a bad one.
The sound made me flinch. Glass shuddered.
“Was that legal? That’s not legal.” Hallie bit her fingernails.
I didn’t answer.
Tucker crumpled for a second, then staggered to his feet, dazed. The ref’s arm stayed down. No penalty, no call.
My gaze flicked from Mason’s face, to his line pairing’s, and several other Surge players. It was one face, and I knew what it meant.
“Shit.”
Grayson was first to drop his gloves, and once the captain made the call, everyone else followed. Mason was closer, and he barreled into Sixteen like a freight train, fists flying. The crack their bodies made on contact sliced through me. All I could think about were his ribs. That shoulder.
“Oh my God,” Hallie gasped. “They’re gonna kill each other.”
The crowd ate it up, half in awe, and the rest in disbelief. It wasn’t some choreographed spat, with just a few polite shoves until the ref stepped in. This was raw-knuckled fury. My guess was that most of it was frustration spilled over from that Predators game. Mason’s helmet hit the ice. His shoulder landed a blow that snapped the other guy back.
Cass, breathe.
“Mason’s never hit anything,” Hallie said, shaking her head slowly. Her eyes never left her brother. “He didn’t even want a punching bag for training in high school.”
Blood smeared across Sixteen’s cheek. Mason’s lip split, red trailing down his chin. The refs dove in, flinging Surge players every which way out of the pile. Helmets and sticks scattered like shrapnel across the ice.
Hallie stared at me, eyes wide. She had no more words.
I gave her shoulder a squeeze, and said, “It’s okay. He’ll be fine.”
But I was afraid that was just another lie I’d told today.
Third period was a blur. Mason was in the penalty box for two minutes, jaw tight, still crackling with residual rage. But when he came back on he vented all of it, connecting with Grayson for one last goal in the final minute. The game went 4-2 for the Surge.
The buzzer sounded, and the arena erupted.
“Come on,” Hallie said, grabbing my hand. “We can get closer by the tunnel.”
