Jett’s 101 on how to escape the demons of your past—score as many fucking goals as you can.
He sat, taking his helmet off and hydrating to prepare for his next shift. He was checking his stick over when the warm press of a hand on his head made him pause.
Harrison.
Jett smirked to himself. He couldn’t react to his boyfriend without drawing attention, but the pride was so evident in the touch that he didn’t need to do or say anything. He knew what that goal had meant for them both, and Jett was so overwhelmed by it that he had to wipe away tears before he got caught.
Bracken swung an arm over his shoulders when he came to the bench, shaking him until the irritation dried up the rest of the waterworks.
“It’s okay, buddy.” Bracken ruffled his sweaty hair. “I knew you could do it.”
The whistle blew, and they paused for a commercial break, allowing Powers to come over and get his fist bumps from them.
“Good show, Jetty!”
Bracken scoffed. “What are Niko and I? Chopped liver?”
Powers tilted his head, blue eyes bright with confusion. “Liver? What does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s an old saying,” said Cote. “Old like Cap is.”
There was a collective sound ofoooohsand laughter, but Bracken’s shrug was unimpressed.
“Niko just hit his word count for the day, guys. Talk shit about him all you want and he won’t be able to answer.”
Cote flushed, and the flush made Jett laugh more than Bracken’s teasing.
“Hey, pussy!”
The playful vibe died, and all attention turned to Campanelli, who was by his bench, dangerously close to the red line. Jett saw Harrison move from the corner of his eye and held out an arm to stop him.
“Quit crying on the bench like a little bitch. You’re so fucking pathetic—I can’t even look at you.”
It was difficult to hear the conversation over the music and the people, but somehow, without raising his voice, Harrison spoke clearly through the chaos.
“One more word and I’ll call you out for unsportsmanlike behaviour.”
Jett held his breath as he watched Campanelli look from Jett to Harrison, weighing his options. Harrison’s interference wouldn’t change or make things better, but it was his right as a consulting coach to call Campanelli if he wanted to.
It was up to Campanelli to decide if the two-minute penalty was worth the effort, and judging by the expression on his face, it was not.
The buzzer rang, and both teams moved into position again. Campanelli was sizing Cote up as his line went out, and Jett knew trouble was coming.
The Sunbursts had two unspoken rules. Don’t touch their goalie, and don’t fuck with their rookies. It looked like Campanelli was about to break one of those rules.
The arm around his shoulders went rigid, and the entire Toronto bench was silent as they watched the puck drop. Campanelli won the face-off, and his stick went high when he turned to chase the puck, smacking Cote in the face.
Cote, having a sense of what was coming and good reflexes, avoided getting hit in the eye. The blade of Campanelli’s stick struck his mouth, and blood immediately splattered onto the ice.
The whistle was already blowing, but it didn’t matter. Cote went down, and every Sunburst player on the ice turned on the Florida captain.
“He needs to keep his head up!” Campanelli shouted at the ref, not seeing Wolf and Cormier until they were on top of him.
Jett and Bracken both jumped up, but Harrison held the Toronto captain by the back of his sweater, refusing to let him leave the bench. Jett knew if he tried to move, he would receive the same treatment, so he angrily started smacking the boards with his stick.
“Fuck off, Killinger—”
“Son of abitch!” Cote’s curse cut Bracken off as he glided toward the bench, taking his mouthguard out and a piece of tooth with it. “Fuck! Fucking bastard—”
