Cunningham started to sing in a country drawl. “Age made no difference / I'd been around and she was young.”
The fuck is he saying?My eyes narrowed—but I didn't have time to think it over. The ref finally threw the puck down to the ice, and I swept my stick at the rubber biscuit as it bounced and wobbled on the ice, like a spinning coin. I won the draw cleanly, sending the puck right back to my defenseman.
With the man advantage, we moved the puck around, setting up our powerplay scheme.
Cunningham stayed pasted right on top of me. In fact, he was blowing his defensive assignment just to try to pester me and take me off my game. If Cunningham wanted to stay right on top of me, all I had to do was draw him away from the net and create an opening for a teammate.
So I did. I backed out of the slot, towards the blue line, and sure enough, Cunningham followed me, whistling that stupid tune.
His coach yelled at him from their bench: “Cunningham! The hell are you doing! Get back on D!”
And I couldn't believe he could bethisdumb. But here he was.
Then Cunningham was singing in that southern drawl again. And my heart stopped when I heard the words:
“My first taste of Texas / Still lingers in my heart and on my tongu—”
A curtain of red rage blinded me. I heard the sound of my stick clatter as it hit the ice; I felt my hands shake free from my gloves. And then I felt the impact of my clenched fist striking bone.
POP!
Cunningham's face contorted after I lost my shit and socked him right on the jaw. Not withpain—though that was there too—but with a morbid smirk. He'd gladly take a thousand punches to the face if it meant helping his team.
Cunningham fell to the ice and turtled in the fetal position, his hands protecting his head, as the referee's shrill whistle sounded.
No!I thought with a panic. I'd taken his goddamn bait.
“Get up!” I snarled, trying to pick Cunningham off the ice and fight me like a man.
But he wouldn't. He never did. There was no point for him to fight. He'd set the trap and I fell for it. I'd won the fight, but he won the battle.
And then a skirmish of bodies surrounded me. Bears players threw punches into the back of my head to avenge their leader. The palms of their sweaty leather gloves thrust into my face and ground against my mouth and eyes.
Still I swung at Cunningham, my clenched fists deflecting off the hard plastic of his helmet, until my knuckles were bloody and raw.
And then it was over. The crowd finally separated us. And the refs escorted me to the penalty box.
I was still in the penalty box when Cunningham scored the game winning goal. I hung my head the second I saw the goal lamp go on. There wasn't anything more unbearable than the shame of costing your team the game.
The dressing room was real quiet after the game. Thezipof laces being undone in a hurry. Velcro straps being torn apart in a silent rage. Three games remained in our season, and our playoff hopes were on life support again.
“Sorry boys,” I muttered with my tail between my legs. “Fuck, that one's on me.”
Iggy shook his head. “The hell did that guy say to you?”
I let out a heavy sigh. “Nothin'.”
Chapter 8:
Hazing
Honor
Tens of thousands of Blizzard fans in that building might have groaned when Hunter Rockwell suddenly snapped and hit that sleazy Cunningham guy right in the face. But us ice girls?
“Yes!” more than a few of us not-so-quietly cheered. Because all night long, Cunningham had acted like a total creep towards us. He'd stalked us any time we were out on the ice, making gross comments, like, “damn baby girl, love that ass. How much would it take?”
Or, worse, “here, kitty kitty kitty!”
