The hit came from my blind side two seconds after I'd released the puck. Shoulder to ribs, driving me into the boards with enough force to rattle the glass and every tooth in my head.
The air left my lungs in a rush, and the world went white around the edges for a split second. I hit the ice face-first, helmet bouncing off the surface with a hollow crack that echoed through my skull.
"You fucking piece of shit!"
Hog's voice cut through the ringing in my ears. I turned my head—slowly, because everything hurt—and saw him dropping his gloves and charging toward Kellner, a freight train with anger management issues.
The benches emptied. Kellner tried to skate away, hands up in mock innocence, but Hog was already on him, massive fists windmilling in a way that would've been comical if it weren't so terrifying.
I pushed myself up to my knees, then to my feet, holding up one hand to wave off the trainer already skating toward me.
The referee sorted through the mess of bodies and flying fists, trying to separate Hog from Kellner while avoiding becoming collateral damage.
"Carter!" Coach's voice boomed from the bench. "You good to go?"
I gave him a thumbs up that looked more convincing than it felt.
The locker room after a loss was always a special kind of hell, but losing while playing like garbage was worse. I sat in front of my stall, carefully peeling off my jersey. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain radiating from my ribs.
"Fucking Kellner," Murphy said from across the room. "That hit was at least three seconds late."
"Should've been five and a game," Kowalczyk agreed. "Refs were blind as usual."
I nodded along, but I waited until most of the guys had headed for the showers before carefully lifting the hem of my undershirt and pulling it over my head. The motion sent a sharp spike of pain through my left side that made me see stars for a second.
In the mirror across from my stall, I saw the damage. A bruise was already forming along my ribs, dark purple spreading across my pale skin like spilled ink.
"You need help with that?"
I looked up to find Hog standing in the doorway to the shower area, towel wrapped around his massive frame, and concern written across his face.
"I'm good."
"Bullshit. That was a dirty hit, and you've been moving like a broken mannequin ever since."
"Just sore. Nothing serious."
Hog studied my face for a long moment, then headed back toward the showers, leaving me alone with my gear and a persistent ache in my ribs, a physical reminder of everything wrong with my world.
I sat there for another few minutes, listening to the shower water run and the muffled voices of a few remaining teammatesdiscussing the game, the refs, and what they planned to do when we got back to Thunder Bay.
None of them mentioned Jake. None of them talked about the hole his absence left in our lineup, or how different everything was without his chaotic energy bouncing off the walls.
I felt it. In every failed play, every missed opportunity, every moment when we needed someone to step up and make something happen out of nothing.
He wasn't coming back. Not tonight, probably not ever. And I was going to have to figure out how to be okay with that and play through the pain of missing someone who'd only been in my life for a month but had somehow become essential to its rhythm.
I finished packing my gear and headed for the bus, ribs aching with every step.
It was an overnight ride back to Thunder Bay. I blinked at the sun as we piled out into the Fort William Barn parking lot. I fumbled with my car keys, trying to find the unlock button while simultaneously trying not to move my left side, when Pickle appeared beside me.
"Cereal! My man! Just the tight-ass I was looking for!"
I nearly dropped my keys. "Damn, Pickle. Where'd you come from?"
"The shadows. I'm very stealthy when I need to be." He bounced on his toes. "We need to talk."
"No, we don't." I finally found the unlock button and pressed it, savoring the small victory of functioning technology. "I need to go home, ice my everything, and pretend last night never happened."
