We hit the third period, and every breath I took burned. It was a welcome relief. The sheer physical exhaustion of playing at a high speed was the only reliable way I had to block out my chaotic headspace. I was playing well; skating fluidly, reading the defensive gaps, and threading the needle to set up two primary assists.
The lactic ache in my legs felt earned, offering a brief, quiet proof that I was finally working for my spot on the ice instead of just coasting on the Johnston name.
I sat on the bench waiting for my next shift, as I squirted a stream of cold water into my mouth. Down at the far end of the bench, Aleksey sat motionless, his eyes fixed on the ice.
I hadn’t looked at him once since the puck dropped. I didn’t need to. I was acutely aware of where he was at all times. It took a ridiculous amount of mental discipline to keep my eyes locked strictly on the ice, forcing my brain to process offensive strategies rather than drifting back to the bus.
Next to me, Matt bounced his knee with restless energy. He then leaned over and tapped my shin guard with the shaft of his stick.
“They’re getting frustrated,” Matt yelled over the deafening noise of the arena. “That big defenseman, number six? He keeps taking late runs at you. Keep your head up out there.”
“I see him,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my glove. “He’s too slow to actually land anything.”
“Just be careful, man,” Matt warned, his usual friendly vibe slipping under the high-pressure reality of the tournament. “Don’t try to play his game. We need you out here, not in the box.”
Hopping over the boards for my next shift threw me right back into the fast pace of the game. I tracked a loose puck sliding deep into the corner of the rink, speeding up to reach it first. The long, scraping strides of Number Six followed right on my heels.
“Not so fast, hotshot,” the guy muttered.
A sharp warning spiked down my spine. Instead of playing the puck, he went right for my legs. He kicked his skate blade behind my ankles. It was a dirty, dangerous move meant to sweep my feet out from under me, and it worked perfectly.
With my skates gone, my forward momentum launched me into the wall. The hard wooden boards caught my ribs with a brutal, crushing impact. My head snapped backward, cracking loudly against the thick plexiglass.
A blinding flash of white washed out my vision. The hit knocked the wind out of my lungs, leaving me gasping for air that refused to come. I collapsed flat onto the freezing ice, my ears ringing while the metallic taste of blood pooled inside my cheek from a bitten tongue.
The blur cleared a second later. The referee had not even blown the whistle yet.
The fog in my head broke the second a maroon jersey tore past my line of sight.
Before the referees even had a chance to blow the whistle, Aleksey was already there. He shed his gloves on the fly, grabbing number six by the front of his collar and dragging the massive defenseman down to the ice.
Lying there, struggling to draw a breath, I could only watch in dazed shock. Aleksey was always so calculated. He played the enforcer role perfectly, fighting only when it served a purpose and always keeping his scholarship safe.
But this was different. This was pure, unhinged violence.
His bare hands hammered into the guy without a single hesitation, a pounding that did not stop until bright drops of blood sprayed across the chopped white ice.
It took two referees and Perez scrambling over to drag him off.
Blinking away the dark spots at the edges of my vision, I pushed myself up onto my elbows. The arena was deafening. The crowd was on its feet screaming, and Coach Corby was yelling from the bench with a dark red face. But all my focus stayed locked on Aleksey.
“What the hell are you doing, Zotov?” Coach shouted, taking off his cap and rubbing his head. “Get off the ice!”
Fighting through the sharp, stabbing pain in my side, standing up under my own power took everything I had.
The referees dragged Aleksey toward the tunnel for an automatic ejection. He fought their grip, digging his skates into the ice long enough to look over his shoulder.
He looked straight at me.
Blood dripped from his split fingers. His face was stripped of the unbothered look he usually wore. His dark eyes were wide and wild, locking onto mine.
My breath caught, sending a stab of pain through my ribs, but it barely registered as a rush of validation hit me instead.
The moment broke when the team trainer hopped over the boards. He knelt beside me on the freezing ice, shining a small penlight directly into my eyes. The harsh beam made the pounding in my skull flare up instantly.
“Follow the light, kid,” the trainer said. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three.” Pushing the light away with a gloved hand, I stepped back. “I’m fine.”
