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Me: Thanks.
On the ice, all my problems disappear. This is where things make sense. My objective is clear: put the three-inch black rubber puck into the net on the other side of the arena. Piece of cake.
Arizona is playing well, but we’re holding our own. Though it wouldn’t be so neck and neck if they tried the lineup switch I suggested. When my shift is over and I come off the ice, I practically fall onto the bench. It’s not standardheight. Some arenas purposely lower their away team benches. When you sit lower, the lactic acid builds up in your knees and it’s harder to recover after a shift. I make a mental note for the boys to hit the bikes extra hard tonight before they hit the bars.
I look up in time to see Matthew Laasko, our left winger, get checked into the boards in front of us.
Barrett leans over and growls, “What the fuck is up with Jorg?”
Arizona’s enforcer, Jorgensen, has been gunning it for Matty all night. I threw my arm out at one of the refs earlier, trying to make sure they keep an eye on those hits. They’re out of regulation and over-the-top.
I shake my head. “No clue. Think I should step in?”
Barrett narrows his eyes at the asshole in question. “Let Broderick take it.”
Nah, I’ll take him. Broderick has been slowly replacing me as the new enforcer on the team, but I’m taller and am better matched for Jorgenson. Jordan said I needed to work off that testosterone. Fucking up that guy’s face sounds better than taking a bunny back to my hotel room. I already warned the officials once.
We’re up 3-2. I anticipate a tight win tonight, but I’m not saying a word for fear of jinxing it. There’s always a little superstition during games. After a few more pulls from my water bottle, I stand, ready to swing a leg over the boards. Broderick’s shift is up, and he starts back in.
Barrett reads my mind and huffs. “Go easy on him.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, sweat raining down my face as I jump back on the ice.
Like I knew he would, he aims for Matty again but doesn’t get far. I drop gloves and jump in his face. Grabbing his sweater, we swing around in a circle like we’reperforming some ice-skating duet. He tries to fake a drop to the ice.
“You fucking pussy.” I pant out a laugh. “No, we’re not done yet.”
Cutting my skates into the ice, I yank him up and throw my elbow into the soft spot where his pads don’t cover. He leans, and I get a clear shot at his helmet, knocking it off and raising my shoulder to hurl my fist into the side of his face.
“Fuck you, Teller!”
He’s gripping the nape of my neck and grabs a handful of hair.
“Harder,” I grit out.
“You would like that, you son of a bitch.” He cracks me in the jaw, and I shove him against the boards.
His head bounces off the plexiglass when my knuckles connect with his skull—bet that one rattled his teeth. Not a second later, the linesmen are grabbing me under my armpits and hauling me back. The asshole spits blood at me, and I lunge for him, getting in one more shot before they throw us in the sin bin.
The ref escorts me to the penalty box, and I politely remind him I gave fair warning earlier; his checks were not regulation. I flop onto the short bench and smile, folding my arms behind my head and leaning back. “Ahhh, feels good to be home, boys!” I don’t get a grin out of the linesman or the penalty box attendant.Tough crowd.Whatever, fuck all of ’em.
When I look up, Jorgensen is glaring at me from the opposing penalty box, and I wink back with a smile.
See? I can still be an asshole.
Matty Laasko is a passive dude until he’s not. There was no reason for Jorgensen to go after him. Those hits were unprovoked—even Barrett had had enoughof that shit, and he’s not one for fights. Nothing pisses me off more than watching someone get attacked by some dickbag, simply to exert control. I intervened because I was defending Laasko... but as soon as I knocked his helmet off, all I could picture was Bryan Davenport’s face.
11
Pulling up to the house, I get a rush of excitement as I anticipate seeing her.Jesus Christ, it’s only been three days.I walk in and throw down my bag in the mud room.
“I’m back!” I holler, striding into the kitchen to find something to eat.
All our plane food is processed shit. I need something fresh, cold, and crunchy. I could make a salad, but I need something more substantial. I want... a sandwich. Yeah, a big fucking sandwich.
Footsteps bound down the stairs and my shoulders loosen. A cozy, relaxed ambiance settles in the room. It’s bizarre, I’ve never had that reaction with a girl before, other than maybe my sisters. It’s foreign and strange. I fuck women, but I don’t often form friendships with them.Where the hell is the brown mustard?My head is still buried in the fridge gathering up sandwich ingredients when she says, “Hey! Congrats on Arizona. Saw the goal, pretty awesome.”
“Thanks.” I continue digging around.
