Blanchard let out a loud, barking laugh, and Jett could feel Bracken’s gaze narrow on them from across the ice.
“The offer still stands,” said Blanchard. “There’s nothing better than a good fuck after a win.”
“True,” said Jett. “But we’re going to win tonight, so don’t get too excited.”
Heleft before Bracken or Wolf could come over and get into a fight with the Calgary player. He knew they were looking for a reason to knock more of Blanchard’s teeth out, but they had to save that shit for when they were on the clock.
When warm-ups were over, Jett hung back at the gate with his captain to watch Wolf fuck with Blanchard, who had a weird superstition about having to be the last person off the ice before the game. The laughter from the stands was deafening as Blanchard threw his arms up angrily, shouting at Wolf and gesturing for him to fuck off.
Wolf would pretend to give up and walk away, waiting for Blanchard to turn his back before he stuck his foot over the edge and touched the ice, gaining another wave of loud laughter.
At least the people of Calgary were being good sports.
When Coach finally chased them away to leave Blanchard alone, Jett’s ribs were sore from laughing.
“Fuck that guy,” said Wolf as they walked into the locker room. “There’s no way we’re losing this game.”
And Jett couldn’t agree more.
But that confidence did not translate to the ice. Not even close.
They were ten minutes into first period and already behind by two points. Jett didn’t want to admit it, but Blanchard was onfiretonight.
Jett wasn’t even playing badly, but he wasn’t on Blanchard’s level, and he felt like his whole team and everyone in the stands knew it.
His teeth rattled in his skull when he was slammed into the boards. He wasn’t the biggest player, but he and Blanchard were of a similar body weight and height, which made it easier to take his hits.
He chased Blanchard down the ice, smacking the puck off his stick and changing the direction of the play. He sprinted across the ice, pushing his legs into the familiar speed he was known for, his eyes finding Bracken to his left. He misdirected the shot, making Calgary’s defence cluster in front of him as he sent the puck to Bracken, who was open.
Calgary’s defence was like a stone wall, but Wolf was right behind him to push the bigger guys out of the way and get into position to catch the puck that was passed back to him.
They crowded the Calgary net, and Jett had to give the puck up—which was for the best because Blanchard picked that moment to hook him and knock his stick from his hands.
Jett’s wrist was screaming in pain, but he scooped his stick up before Calgary could knock it away from him, and caught the puck once again on the tip of his blade.
He shot it at the net before Blanchard returned, but it wasn’t going in. The puck smacked off the top bar, and the whistle blew for the delayed penalty call.
Jett turned and saw Wolf with his gloves off, his hands gripping Blanchard’s helmet as he punched him in the mouth. Bracken was being pulled back by a linesman and a Calgary defenceman trying to help, but he was fighting them.
Panting and bruised, Jett joined the mess before every player on the goddamn ice ended up in the sin bin. He helped the linesman, shoving him back while Bracken yelled at a laughing Blanchard.
“Touch my guy again, Blanchard! I fucking dare you! There’s a reason you weren’t picked for captain in LA, motherfucker!”
Wolf had been dragged to the bin with Blanchard following right behind, but he swerved to look at Bracken, his bloody teeth bared in a snarl.
“Remind me, Bracken! Who’s in the top five—and who’s in the hundreds! You have to be older than me with how shitty you play! Fucking retire already, you fucking pigeon!”
Christ.
The Toronto captain cursed and tried to skate after Blanchard, which ultimately landed him in the sin bin alongside Wolf. Five minutes for fighting.
It was the longest five minutes of Jett’s life. Hellström and Cormier were solid forwards, but Bracken had a talent for putting the puck where it needed to be, and Cormier did not. Tempers flared after the fight, and they had to do several restarts to play twenty seconds of game.
Jett finished his shift and fell onto the bench, tired and pissed off as fuck. Medical staff came to check on his wrist, but other than the bruising, he was fine.
Coach sent their rookie out, and Jett watched as nineteen-year-old Niko Cote, from a tiny indigenous community in British Columbia, scored their first goal of the game.
The booing was music to Jett’s ears. The guys pushed Niko to their bench so everyone could get in on the group hug, and Jett made sure to ruffle his head so hard that his helmet was knocked off.
