I don't waste words. My right fist connects with Anderson's jaw, a clean shot that snaps the man's head back. Pain explodes across my knuckles, but I barely register it. Anderson stumbles but doesn't fall, coming back with a wild swing that I partially block.
We grapple, jerseys stretching as we pull each other off-balance. The crowd is on their feet, a wall of noise surrounding us. I feel a fist connect with my ribs, then another at my temple. Stars burst in my vision, but adrenaline keeps me upright.
I land two more solid punches before the refs intervene, wrestling us apart. Blood drips from Anderson's nose, a bright crimson streak against the white ice. My lip is split, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth.
"Fuck you," Anderson spits.
"Try that shit again and see what happens," I call back, struggling against the ref's grip.
But we're not headed for the penalty boxes. The referee's arm is extended, pointing toward the locker room. Game misconduct for both of us. We're done for the night.
As I skate toward the tunnel, I pass the Blades' bench. Coach Martinez stands at the boards, face carved from stone, eyes cold with disappointment. Not anger—that would be easier to bear. Just that flat, empty look that says he expected more from me.
"Coach, he was targeting Tucker—" I start.
"Save it." Coach's voice is clipped. "Hit the showers."
Frustration bubbles up as I walk down the tunnel. I did the right thing. Anderson was hunting Tucker and would have seriously injured the kid if someone hadn't stepped in. But here I am, punished for protecting a teammate, while Coach looks at me like he's just proven every bad thing ever said about me.
In the locker room, I peel off my gear with angry, jerking movements. My knuckles are already swelling, blood crusting around a split in the skin. The medical staff will want to look at them, but I don’t want to deal with that right now.
Instead, I step into the shower, letting scalding water hammer my aching muscles. I press my forehead against the cool tile and close my eyes.
Elena's face appears in my mind. Would she understand why I did it? Or would she give me that same disappointed look Coach did?
I shut off the water and towel dry, wincing as the rough fabric catches on my split knuckles. I pull on jeans and a hoodie, then make my way back to the tunnel. I can’t go back on the bench, but I want to show support for my teammates even after being booted from the game.
Fuck, it’s going to be a long night.
Later, Miller's Bar hums with the usual post-game crowd. I’m sitting alone at the corner of the bar, drinking a club soda with lime—no tequila tonight, though my body aches for the numbing relief it would bring. My split knuckles throb each time I lift my glass, a physical reminder of the fight, of my frustration.
The rest of the team clusters around tables in the center of the room. We lost 4-2 after my ejection, the defense falling apart in the third period. No one seems to blame me—at least not openly—but I feel the weight of it anyway. Another game where my emotions got the better of me. Another disappointment for Coach. Another reason for Elena to keep her distance.
McCoy catches my eye from across the room and raises his beer in salute. "To Barnesy, for rearranging Anderson's ugly face!"
A chorus of cheers follows. I manage a tight smile and a nod, though the recognition feels hollow.
The bar is packed tonight, bodies pressed close in the dim light. Women in tight dresses and high heels navigate the crowd, many casting glances toward our tables. I’ve seen it a hundred times before—the post-game hunters looking for a professional athlete's attention. I used to be their primary target. Used to enjoy it, too.
Tonight, I just want to be left alone with my thoughts.
"You're Nate Barnes, right?" A woman slides onto the empty stool beside me. She's objectively beautiful—long blonde hair, bright green eyes, curves poured into a black dress that leaves little to the imagination. "I saw your fight tonight. That was something."
"Thanks." I don’t try to make conversation. I don't even look directly at her.
She leans closer, undeterred. Her perfume is too strong. "I'm Amber. Can I buy you a drink?"
"I'm good." I lift my glass slightly. "But thanks."
She places a manicured hand on my forearm, fingers trailing over my skin. "Are you sure? I make a great drinking buddy. Among other things."
A month ago, I would have already been leading her toward the door, anticipating a night of meaningless but satisfying distraction. Now, I gently remove her hand from my arm.
"I'm sure. But I’m not interested."
Her smile falters, confusion flickering across her face. "Seriously? I've heard things about you, you know. That you're fun. That you know how to show a girl a good time."
"Sorry to disappoint." I turn away slightly, making my disinterest clear. "I'm sure you'll find someone else here who fits the bill."
