Page 2 of Line Change

Sindre is a rookie, but he doesn’t complain when the older guys lean on him. He just digs in harder and tries to win the puck. Hearing that sound come out of him sends everyone toward the boards.

Bobby gets there first. By the time I reach the pile, he’s grabbed the front of another player’s jersey and driven him back into the glass.

“What the fuck was that?”

The defenseman shoves at Bobby’s arms. “Get off me.”

“He’s your fucking teammate.”

Bobby pulls his fist back. I catch him around the waist before he can throw it and turn both of us into the boards. My helmet knocks his, then I get my forearm across his chest and pin him against the glass.

“Move,” he says.

“No.” He tries to throw his weight backward. If Bobby gets his hips around, he can lift me, so I keep him turned.

“Fraser,” Caleb says from behind us.

“I’ve got him.”

“Then keep him there.”

Nara drops beside Sindre with one of the assistant trainers. “Everybody give us some room.”

Gunderson sends the rest of the team back with both arms. I drag Bobby a few feet along the boards, and he fights me the entire way.

“Stop,” I tell him.

“He ran him.”

I didn’t see the hit. I saw Sindre disappear under three bodies, and I saw Bobby come out of the pile ready to kill somebody. That’s enough for me right now.

Bobby twists again. “Let me have one.”

“Since when do you stop at one?”

He finally looks at me instead of the defenseman. I keep him there. “Nara’s trying to help Sindre. Don’t make her deal with you too.”

His eyes go past my shoulder. I feel the push leave him, but he doesn’t relax. “I’m not done.”

“You can be not done over here.”

He stays where I put him. I keep my arm against his chest until I’m sure he’s finished trying to get around me, then let him go.

Sindre is still down. Nara asks him something I can’t hear, and he answers. At least he’s talking. When he tries to sit up, she puts a hand against his shoulder and tells him to stay still. He makes an angry sound, which is better than the yelp.

My stomach turns anyway. Sindre still apologizes when somebody else bumps into him in the hall. Now one of our own guys has flattened him in a practice drill because none of us can handle losing three fucking games.

The defenseman who hit him is ten feet away with his mouthguard hanging from one corner of his mouth. His shoulders square when I skate toward him.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“He cut across me.”

I point at Sindre. “So you pull up.”

He yanks his mouthguard out. “I finished the hit.”

“This is practice.”