Red got up and kept playing. Two minutes later, he stripped the puck from a forward and started a breakaway that ended with a shot off the crossbar.
The second time, Red didn't have the puck. Number 44 changed direction to intercept him anyway, driving into Red's hip with enough force that the sound carried to the stands.
Red got up slower this time. His hand went to his hip for just a second before he caught himself and skated gingerly back to the bench. Even hurt, he was still the fastest player on his line.
44 skated back to position. That right ankle again. A clean hit at the right angle, and he'd be off the ice for weeks.
I'd never played hockey. It didn't matter. Bodies worked the same way in every sport.
The third time, 44 came from the blind side. Red tried to dodge and almost made it, but 44 adjusted, throwing an elbow that caught Red in the ribs and sent him spinning into the corner.
Red crumpled against the boards.
I was on my feet before I knew I'd moved.
The glass wasn't that high. Security was focused on the crowd, not on a well-dressed man in the third row. I could be over theboards and across the rink in seconds. I could put my hands on 44's throat before anyone understood what was happening.
I could make him stop smiling.
The thought was calm and clear, and that was the problem. I wasn't angry. Anger was hot and messy and made you sloppy. This was just information, the same way I processed every competitor's weakness.
44 was still smiling as he skated back to position. Red was still on the ice, shaking his head.
"That's not legal," I said. My voice came out wrong. "Is that legal?"
Natalia glanced at me. "I don't know. Is it?"
I didn't know either, but I knew what targeting looked like. My knuckles ached. I looked down and found my fists still clenched, nails cutting crescents into my palms.
The fourth time, 44 didn't even pretend. Red had just passed the puck, was watching it sail toward his teammate, when 44 cut across the ice and drove him into the boards from behind. Red's helmet bounced off the glass. The crowd erupted in boos.
Red went down and he didn't get up.
I was halfway out of my row when a Ristras player dropped his gloves.
The guy was massive, ARMIJO on his jersey, and he grabbed 44 by the collar before 44 could turn around. Three hits, fast and brutal, blood spraying across the ice. The crowd screamed approval. Armijo was already skating toward the penalty box, shaking out his hand, and he caught Red's eye on the way.
They nodded at each other.
"Joel," Natalia said quietly. "You look like you want to kill someone."
I do, I thought, and let her pull me back into my seat.
On the ice, Red was finally getting to his feet. He waved off the trainer, refused the arm that was offered, and skated gingerly back to the bench.
He was going back out there. Of course he was.
"You're in trouble," Natalia said.
I didn't argue.
Red went back out with 44 still in the penalty box. The Ristras had a power play, and Red took his position in the offensive zone, stick ready. He was favoring his left side, his weight shifted to compensate.
It didn't matter. He was still the best player on the ice, still reading the game three moves ahead.
The puck moved between his teammates. Red was already cutting toward the net, pulling a defender with him and opening up the lane. The shot came. The goalie blocked it. The rebound bounced loose.
Red was there.