Page 40 of Power Move
“You too, feeding me that pass.”
Maxim joins us with a hug and a glare at someone over my shoulder. “Chad’s the one who hit you.”
“Well, it didn’t work. We got the goal anyway.” I skate with them to the bench as the PA announcer credits me with the goal and Quinn with the assist. My first hat trick. What a night.
Rhys gave an answer at a press conference before Jonas got hurt, stating what a difference I’m making to the team and how much I’m contributing. I take that responsibility seriously.
I climb beside him on the bench. “Not long now. We have to get through ten more minutes. That’s all.”
He lays his hand on my thigh. “Did he hurt you when he hit you?”
“Not once that puck crossed the goal line.”
Smiling at that, he bumps his shoulder into mine. “My tough guy.”
“Your guy,” I whisper. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to pretend there’s nothing but friendship between us. Remy told me that whenever I look at Rhys, it’s like I have my heart in my eyes.
Coach calls for a line change. Rhys and Remy head out. Morgan’s line is on the ice.
Rhys skates backward toward Pierre as San Jose’s center carries the puck into our zone. He knocks the puck away, and skates with it, readying a pass to Morgan. The puck leaves his stick and lands on Morgan’s, and he plays the puck up the boards to Darius. There’s a battle for the puck and San Jose sends it back to our zone.
Chad speeds in, ignoring the puck, gunning for Rhys. He raises his stick, two-handed, and slams it into Rhys’s back with acrack.
My heart stops. Our bench erupts in outraged yells.
Rhys drops forward, crashing onto the ice. I can’t tell if he got his hands under him in time to brace his fall or if he hit his head. He gets onto his hands and knees, but doesn’t rise beyond that. The bottom half of Chad’s broken stick is beside him. The whistle blows, and play stops.
Writhing and rocking, Rhys attempts to get up, and can’t. Our trainer jogs out there to check on him. Air catches in my lungs, and my chest tightens. I can’t move. All I can do is watch Morgan and Darius help him up, guiding him to the bench. I want to reach out, touch him, talk to him, but they’re taking him to the opposite side, where he has access to the tunnel.
Every muscle in my body vibrates, and I grit my teeth to keep from hurling Chad fucking Cullen through the fucking glass. “Rhys didn’t have the puck. That was a total cheap shot! Chad hits him from behind? Across his back? With his stick like it’s a fucking weapon? What the hell?”
Quinn is beside me. “No. I know. He should be tossed for that.”
The ref skates with Chad to the penalty box.
The PA announcer’s voice booms out. “San Jose penalty, number eight, Chad Cullen. Five minutes for slashing.”
“That’s it? That’s bullshit.” Beyond incensed, I throw my hands up, looking at Quinn. “He injured Rhys. Should be a match penalty.”
“Total bullshit.” Glaring at Chad’s image on the massive screens above center ice, Quinn pats my back. “We’ll handle it.”
I take that for the direction I think it is. Or hell, the direction I want it to be. Not that I was waiting on anyone giving me permission. As soon as Chad comes out of that box, he’s mine. I decided that the second he put his hands on Rhys.
Play resumes. We’re on the power play. I head onto the ice with Maxim and Quinn for my shift. We dominate, and I keep aneye on the clock, and that box. I go back to the bench, biding my time.
Two minutes tick by. I’m back on the ice again, setting up Maxim for a shot. He scores a goal and I get another assist. I don’t care about points right now. I want revenge.
Back on the bench, I watch that box, and wait.
The door to the penalty box finally opens, and Chad skates out. My muscles tensing, anger coursing through me, I stand. Beside me, Morgan does too, ready to jump over for his line change.
Grabbing the hem of his jersey, I pull him back. “Nope. I’m going.”
I hop over the boards. Skating right at Chad. “Yo, asshole. You think you’re getting off that easy?”
I drop my stick. Then my gloves. He smirks at me, losing his too. “Shouldn’t you be going after some ring, Frodo?”
“Yeah, that’s original, fuckhead.” We circle each other, our fists raised. I move in, slamming my right fist into his malevolent mug. The first punch feels good. The second one feels better. I grab hold of his jersey with my other hand, and land another on his chin.
