“That guy you’re dating, Chinese boy, I bet you’re paying him to date you.” My blood runs cold, the temperature inside of this arena dropping, I’m sure. “He looks like a gay male escort with his brown skin and stripper abs.”
My head whips around, my eyes now filling with something so dangerous, it makes the guy who reverted to homophobia back off. His face immediately pales when he looks at me, and I don’t even have to do anything until he slowly backs into the boards behind him.
This alone should get the referees attention, but nothing is happening, which is a bad thing because I don’t know what I’m about to do next.
When Saxon’s back is pressed against the glass, his eyes wide with fear, I snap.
“Say that again, I dare you.” I get closer to his face, my voice lowering. “Come on, Saxon, try insulting my boyfriend again, see what happens.”
He opens his mouth, but I don’t wait for anything to leave it because I take off one of my gloves in a nanosecond before my fist collides with his half-helmeted face.
In seconds I have him pushed up against the boards, boxing into his body with every other word that leaves his mouth, always some stupid insult. The more he insults me or Luan, the harder I box him.
I only get three more punches in before both of the referees are beside us, trying to pull me away from Saxon. It doesn’t work.
Though, when I finally give in, ready to flee the scene and go to the locker rooms to have Coach yell at me, Saxon gets a punch in, hitting me right on the side of my face.
“I hope your little male escort dies from his gayness, like you!”
Screw it. I pull my arm back, then with a great force and all of my strength, I let another fist collide with his face.
Saxon yelps and topples over, now lying on the ice. Some of his blood drips onto the ice, not nearly enough though. While his teammates come to gather around him, trying to see if their beloved center still has all of his body parts intact, mine come to check on me and I just skate right past all of them and off the ice.
The game’s over for me anyway, so I might as well leave. There’s no way I’m allowed back on the ice today.
So much for wanting my first game as captain to be a good one.
“Davis! What the hell was that?!” Coach snaps when I leave the ice, but I ignore him, making my way to the locker room.
As the doors close behind me, I finally allow myself to take a deep breath.
What the fuck just happened?
Not once in my life have I gotten genuinely violent with someone, not even during puberty. I always found reasons to stay calm, to be unshakable. So why did I snap? Why could I listen to my own father disrespect me for years and never once raise my voice, but some random guy says one bad thing about Luan, and suddenly I use my hands totalk.
I throw my gloves onto the bench in front of my cubby. The helmet comes off next. I seat myself across from my cubby, my head dropped between my shoulders as I stare down to the floor.
When I think I can finally have a short moment to myself, I hear the doors open. It has got to be one of the medical staff to see whether I am okay or if I need to go to the hospital or anything alike.
Only that the voice that speaks is too familiar to be one of the medical staff.
“Are you injured?” He comes closer, and without waiting for an answer, Luan lifts my face to his. His eyes travel over my face, but he must see something bad because there’s a hint of sadness in his green ones.
“Is it that bad?” I feel blood running down from somewhere around my eyebrow, maybe, but I don’t think it’s that bad. Injuries happen, especially when someone hits you right in the face.
“Not bad enough to get doctors involved.” That’s good. “You won’t even need stitches.”
Luan pulls the sleeve of his sweater over his hand then brings it to my wound to wipe off some of the blood. I don’t think it’s doing much, but it’s a kind gesture anyway.
“How do you know?”
Luan smiles down at me, then winks. My heart fucking stops at that. “I work with kids from age four to eighteen, baby. I’ve seen my fair share of injuries caused by fights or simple lacerations, so deciding whether one might need stitches or if letting your blood cells build clots and scab will suffice, I can do that in my sleep.”
I guess that makes sense. He’s still not a doctor, but I trust him.
“Are you okay?” His voice is filled with sympathy.
I lay my hands on the back of Luan’s thighs to pull him right between my legs. “No.”
