Page 15 of Scoring Slater
"Thanks." He tapped his stick against Max's in a ritual that went back to their days as teammates all those years ago.
Then he took his frustration out on shooting pucks at the net.
Throughout the game, Slater used the anger for fuel. He delivered punishing checks, chirped Philly's bench relentlessly, and had been flipped off and cursed out more times than he could count.
In the second period, during a commercial break, Kelsey’s image flashed onto the huge screen above the ice. "Hi Bedlam fans, we’re back with another apartment tour here on Kelsey’s Corner. This week, we’re visiting Slater Knox and Noah Alzado in their apartment. Come along with me and let’s check it out."
Slater nearly dropped his water bottle. He’d forgotten the video was due to air. He glanced down the bench, seeking out Noah. They hadn’t interacted much throughout the first thirty minutes of play, aside from a high-five after a goal in the first period. He couldn’t look his friend in the eye without remembering what had happened the previous night.
Leaning on the bench, ears red, Noah stared at the screen. His voice rang out through the speakers, talking about books. The fans laughed as he made fun of Slater’s cooking. When the side-by-side view of their closets and rooms filled the screen, the arena erupted into laughter and cheers.
Heat crept through Slater’s neck at his own comment about the shower situation. Beside him, Leo snickered.
The last section of the video, as they said goodbye, he squinted at the screen. He knew he’d wrapped an arm around Noah’s shoulders, but he’d missed the way Noah had leaned into him… Having it blown up on a giant screen was almost like looking at it through a magnifying glass. He dragged his gaze down the bench once more, and landed on crystal blue eyes staring right at him. Noah’s brows lifted, and the vulnerability etched onto his features reached something deep in Slater’s core and twisted it until an ache throbbed beneath his chest. He didn’t know what to say or do. He couldn’t pretend the previous night hadn’t happened, but he also wasn’t sure how to navigate a conversation about it, if Noah was even willing to discuss it again.
Halfway through the third period, he sat between his line mates, watching Noah's line dominate on the ice. Deep in enemy territory, Noah chased after a puck into the corner and received a brutal cross check from behind by the largest player on Philly's team. He smashed into the boards and dropped to the ice.
Slater launched to his skates. "What the hell?"
The whistle blew and the remaining Bedlam players on the ice rushed to Noah's side. Celek knelt and talked to him, and medical personnel made their way onto the ice.
Icy fear snaked down his spine. Slater stared at Noah, willing him to move. Silence filled the arena. The sickening helplessness was too similar to what it had been like when Dylan had dropped to the ice two seasons ago. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Dylan, now an assistant coach, his eyes full of sympathy and concern.
Slowly, cheers rang out around the arena. He whipped his gaze back to the ice. Noah stood, assisted by Celek and they made their way back to the bench. All around him, teammates cheered and tapped their sticks on the boards. Slater sought out Noah's eyes, needing to see them before he could release the fear.
Noah sat at the end of the bench, helmet in his hands, being evaluated by a trainer. He turned toward Slater. "I'm fine. Just got the wind knocked out of me."
"Someone else is about to have that happen too." At the very least. He locked in on his target. Number sixty-seven in gray and yellow. Revenge was a guarantee. Coach would put him on the ice at the same time as that asshole's line, he had zero doubt about that.
Two minutes later, he got his wish as the Swede exited the penalty box. Slater hopped over the boards. Flying across the ice, he tossed his stick, gloves, and helmet. The guy saw him coming, dropped his stick and gloves, and raised his fists. Slater threw his body into the opposing player. Fists flew, connecting with the guy's nose, cheek, and the side of a helmet. Over and over, he pummeled as a firestorm raged through his veins. A fist came in fast, catching him in the jaw. His head snapped back and he tasted blood. Snarling, he grabbed the guy's jersey and landed two more punches to his stupid face, then yanked him off-balance and dragged him to the ground.
The officials moved in, breaking them up. Breath heaving and sweat streaming, Slater pushed his hair out of his face and went without argument with the ref who escorted him to the penalty box. He had no idea where his stuff had ended up, and didn't care. Across the ice, his teammates were banging their sticks in support. He sat on the bench inside the box and wiped a towel over his face and watched as the fight replayed on the huge screen above center ice. As the adrenaline faded, the aches and pains set in. He flexed his fingers, testing his throbbing knuckles, and realized the blood he tasted was from biting his tongue during that hit.
In the other penalty box, the Swede looked worse. The towel he held to his nose was streaked with blood, and his other hand cradled his jaw.Good. Usually, Slater didn't intend to inflict actual damage. Squaring off with the other team's heavy weight was enough to send a message. But this time was different. This was for Noah.
The announcer called out the penalties. Five minutes for fighting, and an extra two minutes for Slater for instigation. He was surprised he hadn't gotten tossed out.
Noah didn't return to the ice in the entire time that Slater sat in the box. Either the medical staff was operating out of an abundance of caution, or something was wrong.
When he got back to the bench, Noah wasn't there, and the teammates at his end of the bench couldn't tell him why. The remaining three minutes of the period were the longest he'd ever played.
Finally, the horn sounded. Slater rushed onto the ice to hug and congratulate his goalie, and was one of the first ones heading into the dressing room. Minutes later, Noah came in. Slater pushed aside the earlier awkwardness and beelined to Noah's stall. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. They saw that I hit my head on the boards and wanted to make sure I was really okay."
"And, are you?"
"Yes. I swear."
Even so, he kept an eye on Noah throughout the post-game conditioning and meal. His thoughts kept drifting back to Dylan, motionless on the ice, and how scared he'd been seeing Noah laying there.
Exhaustion had hit him by the time they finally left the arena. Driving through streets dotted with rain, he half-listened to the music coming from the radio. He craved the quiet darkness of his bedroom and some alone time to process his thoughts.
As soon as they walked into the apartment, Noah headed for the kitchen, and no doubt the tea kettle. Slater went to his room and closed the door. He collapsed onto his bed, head in his hands, sorting through the tangle of emotions.
A soft knock followed his door creaking open. "Slater? You're supposed to ice your hand again. How are you feeling?"
"Fine." He spoke the word without lifting his head, unwilling to let Noah see him like this.
