You’re what?I asked myself.
Playing hard. Doing my best. Trying to beat the other guy through skill, athleticism, and hard work.
Right.
Those things meant nothing now. Oh sure, that wholesome farm boy act worked perfectly in Canada, but it wouldn’t fly here. Kayden would totally say that if given the chance. In fact, he would really rub it in. Rather than take that risk, I ignored him like I’d suggested he do with me.
Coach Hardison sent us in for our next shift, and I steeled myself before taking the ice again. I could prove Kayden wrong. I wouldn’t waste a chance at redemption. Trevor Trombley had been sprung from the penalty box and eyed me down like he was still hungry for a piece of me. You could say he wanted to finish what he started.
Fine by me.
This time, I wouldn’t let him play dirty. I wouldn’t let him get the best of me. Instead of getting knocked around, I would show him the principles that’d brought me to Buffalo.
I eyed Trombley, heading straight for him. No fear. That ought to shut Kayden up, I thought. When I swept the puck away from him, I felt his body graze mine again, as he probably wanted to deliver an elbow to my side. I finessed him by speeding ahead, taking a shot at the net. The goalie attempted the block, but the puck slipped past him and into the net.
The crowd roared and I swung around the next, both arms raised, like we’d won the Stanley Cup. I’d wanted to prove a point and that first goal was an awesome start. I glanced over at Kayden whose face had remained stoic, like he wouldn’t show me an ounce of encouragement.
I couldn’t mistake the anger on Trombley’s face, though. If I’d been lunch before, I would be dinner now.
When the ref dropped the puck at center ice, I felt the momentum build as adrenaline pumped through me. I had one goal under my belt, and I was determined to score a second. Not only would I show-up Trevor Trombley, but Kayden Preston would eat crow.
And then it happened: Trombley charged toward me as if on a mission. He checked me hard into the boards. Okay, I’m not being honest with you. My pa told me to always tell the truth. I felt like I’d been hit by a train. Even that doesn’t hit the mark. It wasn’t just about being hit hard. He nailed me in the most awkward way possible. My neck was turned at an odd angle, and the shot lifted me up enough that my skates left the ice. I struck my head on the fiberglass above the boards and again on the ice on the way down.
The whole nasty event happened in slow motion, and I felt helpless to stop it.
And then the lights went out.
6
KAYDEN
That son of a bitch! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a hit as awkward as the one Trevor Trombley put on Erik. Worse, Erik looked like a rag doll when slammed into the boards and landing on the ice. I seized right up when I saw it, wanting to put my hands over my eyes. Look, I’m all for rough-and-tough play, but doing that to a guy on purpose is total bullshit. I could tell by the look of Trombley that he’d been on a mission from the very start.
I couldn’t just stand there with my thumb up my ass. Oh no, I couldn’t let him take a shot at my teammate and do nothing about it. That’s not hockey.
I headed straight for Trombley, not giving a shit that he was bigger and stronger than me. I didn’t care about consequences. I didn’t care that he was Frankenstein on skates. This guy was mine.
The moment I caught up with him, I knocked the stick out of his hand, dropped my gloves, snatched his jersey with both my hands, and drew him in close. Then I cocked a fist back and drove it into his jaw. His head snapped back, making me think of those inflatable clowns that pop back up for more punishmentafter you punch them. It would’ve been funny if this hadn’t been a totally serious situation.
Spit flew out of his mouth, and the whole thing seemed to happen in slow motion. I delivered another blow, this one mashing his nose.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He practically spat the words out.
“What the fuck do you thinkyou’redoing putting a hit on my man like that?”
Even in that moment, I knew how weird that sounded.
My man.
I’d meant to saymy teammate, honest, butmy manwere the words that spilled out. I’d focused on that so much that I didn’t notice Trombley’s bloodied face or that his eyes had practically bored holes through me.
When Trombley grabbed my jersey, seizing control, I felt trapped. He delivered a fist, destined for my mouth, but I dodged it, so the punch only grazed my face. I still sensed the blow, understanding that it would probably feel worse later.
Then I took another shot at the asshole, my fist striking his chin, but with nowhere near the velocity and fierceness I’d wanted. That was okay. I wasn’t even close to being finished with him. But this is where things get even crazier. All of a sudden, I found myself outside Mister Goodbar again, and Trevor Trombley was the punk who’d barked up the wrong tree.
Before I could take another shot, a set of hands burrowed its way in between us. Somewhere in what felt like a faraway distance, the sound of a whistle blowing at us echoed. Just because I heard the whistle didn’t mean I had to heed. After all, I had an ass to kick, and my heart hammered too hard to think about cooling my jets.
Another set of hands tried to pry us apart, and the sound of whistles turned cacophonous.
