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The game was,as they usually were, intense. By midway through the second period, there’d been eight combined minutes of penalties, and the score was tied at one apiece. Both teams had had tobattlefor their respective goals, and both sides were getting heated with every penalty. Evenmoreheated with everymissedpenalty.
The crowd was fired up, too, especially after Bennett had been blatantly slashed right in front of two officials and the penalty went uncalled. Maybe thirty seconds later, the guy who’d done the slashing was tripped, and of coursethatpenalty was called. Shortly after that player came out of the box, a Yellow Jacket was sent in for a high stick even though everyone could clearly see that the player who’d been hit had taken one of his own teammates’ elbows. Then two guys briefly exchanged punches, and—predictably—only the retaliator went to the box.
This game was going to turn into a legit bloodbath, and that was going to be squarely on the refs.
A whistle blew, and the Zamboni gate opened so the ice crew could come out to clean off the snow. Just as well—my heart was pounding from the game, and I probably needed a breather as much as the players did.
“Ooh, someone’s spicy tonight.” Darren nodded toward the other side of the zone.
I followed where he was looking, and—oh, he was right. I grinned as Tanner squared off with Daniel Smedley, who was easily a head taller and thirty pounds heavier. They hadn’t dropped gloves, but they were in each other’s faces, visors clicking together as they exchanged snarls and shoves while the ice crew worked around them.
The rest of the crowd was starting to notice, too, and the noise escalated along with the tension between the two players. The whole stadium was frothing at the mouth for a fight, and it looked like Tanner and Smedley were about to deliver.
An official got in between them, though, and the Pittsburgh captain slung an arm across Tanner’s chest, making him glide back a foot or so. Tanner kept yelling past him, but the captain just shook his head, same as the ref who was exasperatedly trying to get Smedley to back down.
Cheers were replaced by boos, especially when Tanner and Smedley both gave up and skated away from each other as the ice crew left the arena. Tanner went to the bench with the rest of his line. Smedley joined his defensive partner at the faceoff dot. I suspected the refs had threatened them with delay of game penalties or something.
Ugh. Fine. Ruin our fun, you dicks.
Though something told me this wasn’t over. Tanner was scrappy as hell on a good day, and he and Smedley had been striking sparks off each other since their first shift. Unless his coach told him to cool it—and he sometimes did—there was still a good chance of fisticuffs before this game ended.
And that was before Smedley cross-checked one of Pittsburgh’s third line forwards for no fucking reason. That earned him a two-minute minor, which gave Pittsburgh a chance to score and grab the lead. Smedley was still getting a beatdown before the night was over, though. I could feel it.
Especially when Smedley was heading for the box, and I glanced at the Pittsburgh bench just in time to see Tanner and his coach exchange a look. I couldn’t see Tanner’s face in that moment, but Coach Martinson was chewing his gum like it owed him money, and the single nod he gave Tanner made me grin. When Tanner faced the ice again, he too was grinning even as he played with his mouthguard.
I leaned over to Darren. “Jeffries and Smedley are going to fight. Mark my words.”
Darren shook his head. “Nah. I doubt it.”
I just smirked. We’d see, wouldn’t we?
By the time the clock was down to six minutes remaining in the third, I was starting to think there wouldn’t be a fight after all. Smedley and Tanner hadn’t been on the ice at the same time much since their initial altercation, and when their shifts had coincided, they’d both been too busy playing hockey to go UFC on each other.
But then Smedley fucked around again, punching a Pittsburgh player, and yetagain, the only one who went to the box was the Yellow Jacket who’d retaliated. Fucking refs. That smug asshole Smedley stayed out on the ice for his team’s power play… and though Tanner was usually on Pittsburgh’s power play, he came out with the penalty kill this time.
I sat up and tapped Darren’s leg. “It’s going down. Right now.”
Darren tsked. “Yeah. Okay.”
There was a faceoff at the dot right in front of where we were sitting, and most of Pittsburgh’s skaters immediately collapsed in on the goal like a phalanx. Tanner wove between a pair of defensemen and snatched the puck away from a forward. With a glorious slapshot, he sent the puck screaming down the ice, clearing it from the zone.
The other goalie caught the puck and passed it to one of his defensemen, who’d skated into the neutral zone. The power play unit had to regroup and re-enter Pittsburgh’s defensive zone. One of Pittsburgh’s penalty killers broke away from his place by the goal and joined Tanner at the blue line, battling it out for the puck and refusing to let them cross the line. One defenseman managed to get across, followed by two of his teammates, but Tanner’s teammate poke-checked the puck away from him and sent it to Tanner, who once again cleared it.
They kept that up for almost the entire two minutes. Then, with the last dozen seconds of the penalty ticking down, Tanner hip-checked Smedley, and even from here, I could tell he said something to him.
Smedley’s temper snapped.
His stick and gloves flew.
Tanner, his smirk visible from space, dropped his own gear and put up his fists. We all shot to our feet and roared, egging them on as they circled each other.
Then, grinning like an absolute shit, Tanner beckoned with one hand, and the crowd went absolutelywild.
In an instant, Smedley and Tanner were going at it. Each had a handful of the other’s jersey, and their free fists flew as they tried to drag each other down to the ice. It was Tanner who lost his footing first, but he’d barely hit the ice before, in a series of impossibly agile movements, he had the upper hand. The roar of the crowd was deafening as Tanner landed a solid blow to Smedley’s face, and then we were booing as the refs ruined all the fun by pulling them apart.
It was over in seconds—usually was—and my heart was going stupid fast as I shouted and cheered at the top of my lungs.
Tanner and Smedley were both still screaming at each other on the way to the box. Once they were seated, they kept right on going, gesturing and yelling through the divider. At least Tanner wasn’t dabbing at his lip or anything, so his stitches must’ve held.
