Leaning over at the centerline, my stick rested horizontally against my thighs, I lift my head to look into the cold eyes of Mitch Sutter. He’s got a nice bruise on his face.
“See something you like, Leslie?”
The puck drops and I’m not paying attention. He scoops it away from me easily and sends it behind him to Lukkovnov and then barrels toward me. At least I catch that and hold my ground, retaliating with a shove. “Fuck off, Sutter, or your eye will match your face,” I shout, which is not the thing to say if you actually hope someone will fuck off.
We throw our sticks down at the same time, shedding our mitts. We glide in a circle, facing off, the crowd cheering around us, preparing for a good old-fashioned hockey brawl while teammates from both sides of the bench bang their sticks on the boards.
His lips quirk up in the unilateral vision of contempt. “Too bad your coach is a hoser. Maybe that’s why you haven’t scored all game?”
That’s it. He’s dead.
His jersey is twisted in my right hand, and I swing with my left. I don’t stop swinging till his helmet falls off. My jersey’s twisted into his left hand and he’s battering me with his right untilmyhelmet falls off.
Crack!A sledgehammer-heavy punch to my jaw is what does me in and I fall to my knees. The ref blows his whistle. We’re pulled apart and sent to the box for five-minute majors.
Worth it.
This game was over before it started anyway. We might as well go out fighting.
From beside me, there’s awhamon the glass. Sutter. I shouldn’t give him any attention, but of course, I do, flipping him the bird. I’m riled. We’re both out for blood. I want to kill him for what he said.
The next faceoff isn’t much better. It’s four on four from the attack zone and Casey’s pissed because of what happened to me. Lukkovnov is pissed because of what happened to Sutter. Casey passes to Dash and gets a violent shoulder check from Lukkovnov that sends him sky-high. He lands on his left hip.
Mother fucker that’s gotta hurt.
Stacey beelines it for Lukkovnov, his gloves already bouncing as they hit the ice. Every player—from both teams—is inspired to follow suit. Gloves and sticks fly everywhere. Players from the bench hop over the boards and onto the ice, colliding in ferocious pandemonium.
Their coach yells something at Mercy and fuck do I wish I could hear them. By the look on his face, it’s not good. Mercy responds in kind and he’s so damn handsome even in the throes of savagery. Maybe especially then. At the same time, they jump onto the edge of the boards and shout at each other.
Dressed in suits, they’re a sight. Civility meets Tarzan. Mercy is way hotter, but Coach McKinnon is still fucking delicious with his barrel chest and well-trimmed beard. If he grew his beard out, I bet he could easily look like a Highlander.
The refs have a hard time breaking up the horde. Whistles sound everywhere—as if that’s stopping them now—and they do their best to pull hockey animals apart.
Eventually, the assistant coaches from each team pull their respective coach down from the boards while they continue to shout whatever—probably insults and sharp-lined criticisms—to each other.
I’m gonna be stuck in this box forever.
There’s anotherwhamfrom beside me and with all the frenetic activity in the air, this time I hit the glass with my fist in response. “Go fuck yourself on a cactus, Sutter.”
“Know what I heard? You suck so bad, Rhett’s been trying to pay off the league to draft you, but they won’t even accept money for you, let alone pay you.”
Wow. Low blow bringing Rhett into this. How is Rhett friends with this guy?
“You mother fucking, douchebag. Wait till we’re out there again. I’m going to paint the ice with you.”
By some magic, the refs have managed to break up the zoo on the ice, but the air in the arena has reached the peak of chaos. Lukkovnov is kicked out of the game. Casey’s limped off the ice. Stacey gets to join me in the box and together we antagonize Sutter until I’m released. Not that it affects the cocky bastard much. I swear, he’s so damn impenetrable. No wonder he gets on Casey’s nerves.
I skate over to our bench. If I thought Mercy was mad on the bus, it’s nothing compared the dark fury kindling there now. I think he gets the whole rivalry thing.
“We need to score, Jack. I don’t care how the fuck you do it, but you need to put the puck in the net.”
He stares at my face. It’s not our mutual stare of longing, it’s concern. Right, my face must be bruised to shit right now. His hand lifts and he must not know what he’s doing because while we’re a bit loose at practice with showing affection, we never do at games since they’re live-streamed. Our situationship is no secret, but we’re not that public with it.
We’re not sure how it would go over. I mean, nothing overly terrible would happen, but I’d probably get traded since he’s a coach and not just a player.
One of us should be smart and pull out of the other’s sphere, but I don’t want to. His thumb brushes over my cheek. For a second, I think he might even kiss me.
He doesn’t.
