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Chapter Three
The energy ofthe arena was echoed by the energy on the ice.
Houston’s fans were loud and crazy, but so was the chirping that was happening throughout the game. However, the chirping led to more fights than we usually took, but sometimes you had to stick up for your men.
This was easily going to be the highest penalty minutes game I’d ever been a part of, and I was pretty sure my minutes tonight—in a measly fifteen minutes of play time—were the same as all the ones I’d racked up while playing in Moline last season put together.
Moline was a middle-ground team. They had good games and bad games, and generally made the playoffs by the peach fuzz growing on the rookies’ faces. I’d been the resident enforcer—even though I wasn’t usually a fighter. At six-two and two-twenty, I wasn’t even the thickest guy on the bench, but for whatever reason, I played with a presence that had guys backing off of our key players.
I’d played with grit and made sure my shifts were played in the fullest. But still, I never had as many penalties as I carried with me tonight.
It wasn’t even like we were fierce rivals with these guys.
However, losing game after game put sticks up asses, and we were definitely playing like a bunch of assholes.
The whistle was blown and all us guys on the bench moved down to make room, some of the guys on ice slipping into the bench while others stayed standing on the outside, waiting for Coach’s direction.
“We’re shaking up our second line, boys. Thompson, Kolak, Prescott. I want you out there.” We were the heavy hitters, the guys who usually played on the third and fourth lines. The puck would be dropped in Houston territory and we needed strength to protect Ketty, but we also needed guys who could play the puck well if we managed to take over possession. Our first line was just coming off a fairly heavy shift, so it would be up to us.
Coach drew out plays and soon we were on the ice, set up to Ketty’s left. It was a good spot; he was strong on this side.
At center, Kolak bent down, ready to fight the face-off. I glanced over to him, then at our two Defensemen; there were words being exchanged over by Polk, who was easily our strongest D-man, but the man kept his eyes trained ahead of him.
Crouching down to my own ready stance, I ignored the words being spewed by the kid next to me. The puck was dropped and soon the battle began.
We fought hard, but Houston fought harder, and while the puck managed to cross zones once, then twice, it quickly found itself slipping back behind Ketty and the net. Thompson and Houston’s Michael Vess were battling it out against the boards, each trying to gain possession; there may have been a sly elbow thrown in, but it wasn’t caught.
If it was—there were sometimes shady refs on ice—it wasn’t called.
Thompson kicked the puck out from the boards, and I stretched my stick out, but I wasn’t quick enough. Another of Houston’s players tapped it out of the way, quickly slipping around the side of the net and passing it between the post and Ketty’s right skate.
“Fuck!” I yelled aloud, not that it was heard over the screaming and yelling that moved around the arena.
Before I could turn to head into the bench, the yelling took a fevered pitch. I looked over my shoulder and watched as Thompson threw a mean right hook at Michael Vess. Whatever the hell had gone on against the boards pissed the rook off.
Probably that fucking jab to the gut.
I pushed off, quickly finding myself in the middle of the mess, grabbing Vess by his shoulders and pulling him back.
“Fucking asshole,” I hollered loud enough for Vess to catch. I pushed him away, only for him to come back at me, his free fist flying toward my face.
“You think you’re such a hotshot, Prescott?” he taunted, as I dipped to the side to avoid his fist. His other hand was wrapped in my sweater and I fought to shake my gloves off. “You’re just a fucking washout. Playing the fucking AHL.”
He tried for another punch as I mercilessly laughed. “Yeah, well, Dallas didn’t want to keep you around, so they signed you on a fucking one-way in Houston. Looks like someone is making a career in the AHL, douche.” My gloves hit the ground and I wound up my fist…
But my elbow was caught.
I glanced over. Ketty was holding me back as the refs came in, pulling Vess back.
Vess spat in my direction, but no other words could be said as the linesman came in and took my arm from Ketty. “Going in, Prescott.”
“Fuck that shit,” I said, trying to shake him off.
“Roughing.”
“Asshole,” I murmured, not necessarily meaning the zebras.
Overhead, the announcement was called. “Houstonnnnn GOAL! Goal by Michael Vess, no assists. Penalties called. Michael Vess, five for fighting. Jason Thompson, five for fighting. Noah Prescott, two for roughing.”
