I looked down at his hand, then back at his face.
A thousand things ran through my head—the last two months of keeping my mouth shut, the year before that of pretending not to bleed, every coach who’d ever said be professional, don’t let them get to you, just stick to the system. I thought of Kincaid, the way he’d said you’re not on trial, and felt the laugh lines under my skin like an echo.
“Did you want an autograph?” I said.
He moved, fast, like he’d been waiting for me to swing first. His hand came up, and for a split second I saw the shape of it, the way his fist closed, and I stepped just enough to the side that his knuckles hit the wood of the doorframe instead of my jaw.
The noise was sharp. Clear as a bell.
He swore loud enough that it would carry into the hallway.
“Jesus,” said the third guy, grabbing his arm. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?”
The noise the big guy made was almost surprised. He lunged again, his hand catching my shoulder this time and shoving me back into the tile with a dull, echoing thud. I just stood for half a second, feeling the way the world seemed to thin at the edges when adrenaline hit you cold and fast. Outnumbered, outweighed, and apparently the designated villain tonight.
Someone caught my arm. Another set of hands, rougher, and he twisted so hard I thought he’d rip it off. I brought my knee up, not aiming, just reflex, and it landed somewhere soft enoughthat one of them gasped and let go. I tried to step sideways. Bathroom floor slick, the smell of beer and urinals.
The third guy, who’d been trying to play peacemaker, got shoved against the countertop and just stayed there, watching. Not my problem.
The big one’s fist came at my face. I ducked, not enough, not fast enough—the edge of it caught me across the cheekbone, and my eyes watered instantly. Another blow, this time lower, into my ribs. The world compressed to the width of his fist and the inside of my lungs. I tried to say something, but it came out a grunt.
“Not so tough now, are you?” he sneered, and someone else laughed, high and brittle.
I hit him back, open palm to his throat. Not elegant, but it connected, and for a second he staggered, hand at his neck, and I thought: you can just leave. Just go.
But that wasn’t how these things went. Never had been.
The other one caught me around the waist and drove me back. My shoulder hit the edge of the sink. Metal bit into bone. I lashed out with an elbow and caught someone in the mouth this time; he spat blood and swore, but it only made him angrier, and now all three were involved, shoving and cursing. The smallest one kicked my knee, and pain exploded white-hot up my leg.
I swung blindly, made contact with hair and skin, but the numbers weren’t in my favor. Felt a fist in my gut, hard enough I doubled over. Second punch, this one to the back of my neck. I staggered forward, hands on the edge of the sink, struggling to keep upright.
“Should’ve stayed on your own side of the ice, asshole,” someone said behind me. Their voices blurred together, thick with alcohol and whatever else men like this carried around for nights like these.
Something sharp cracked against my jaw. My vision flickered, light at the corners. I tasted blood, bitter and hot. My head slammed into the tile, and for a second, everything went black, then came roaring back. The biggest one had me by the collar of my shirt, twisting, forcing my face up.
He smiled, mean and pleased with himself, and I hated him, not for the fight, but for how familiar this was. The old ritual: find the weak spot, exploit it, don’t let up until you’re sure the other guy won’t get up again.
I registered the third man dashing from the room, but then my arms got grabbed from behind, and the second crack to my jaw finished me off.
Theron
My phone jumped on the nightstand. Renaud’s name lit up the screen. I snatched it up.
“Coach,” Renaud said, calm as ever.
“What’s going on?” I forced my voice to steady.
“We’re at Northwestern Memorial ER. Dante got jumped in a hotel bathroom—three on one. He’s with a doctor now.”
Silence slammed into me. The world paused, like the air itself was bracing for impact. “Is he awake?”
“He is now. Was out cold when we found him.” A sharp noise behind him—door? nurse?—and Renaud’s voice tightened. “They’re running scans. The guy who hit him was a big bastard. Could be nothing, but you know.”
I knew. Every scar, every hit I saw on the ice, told me the cost. “Who’s with you?”
“Me, Keegan, Ash, Cole. I sent the rest back to their rooms.”
Good call. Renaud always did right under fire. “Stay with him. I’m coming.”
