And again.
The other guy doesn’t even get a punch in at all.
The pileup of bodies happens in seconds. Someone yells. Another whistle screams, the echo reverberating around the arena. Someone on the other team throws another punch, and I retaliate. Another body—probably Beck—is already hauling me back before I cango for another swing. I yank my shoulders out of his grip and wipe more blood off my face, this time from a giant gash in my forehead, smearing it all down my cheek. I welcome the stinging pain.
“Jesus Christ, man,” Beck growls in my ear, fist gripped tightly on the back of my jersey. “You trying to get yourself benched? You’re on fucking thin ice already,captain.”
I shrug my best friend off, breathing hard, glaring at the guy on the other team who’s now spitting teeth and blood onto the ice.Good. The dude sneers, wiping his mouth, and I clench my jaw so hard my own teeth threaten to crack under the pressure.
A penalty is called by the ref. Beck skates back to our other teammates, throwing an angry glance in my direction. Callum and Finn are shouting at the ref, arms flailing, pointing at me and the other guy.
“McKnight! Get your ass over here!”
Coach Abrams’ voice booms over the chaos. I skate toward him, bracing myself for the inevitable lecture. Ice kicks up around my skates as I halt to a stop and step off the rink and onto the bench.
“Five minutes for fighting.” The ref glares at me. Shit. I know the consequences before it’s out of his smug fucking mouth. “Game misconduct.” Coach Abrams pinches his mouth in a thin line. It’s a bad look when your captain is the one getting pulled off the ice for fighting.Again.
Calder Trophy winner and first Wolverines player to make captain in their second season, everyone. I’m really living up to expectations.
Coach waves the ref off and he skates back to join the players on the ice. The noise of the arena is a dull buzz in my ears. I tune it out, the pain of the punches I’d received starting to throb in my head. The fullweight of Coach Abrams’ disappointment hits me like a tidal wave.
“That’s your third fight in four games,” Coach bites out, voice low, barely contained fury. “What the hell is going on with you?”
“Just playing hockey, Coach.” I mutter, exhaling sharply through my nose. I set my helmet next to me and run a hand through sweat-dampened hair. Sweat or blood. I can’t tell right now. I don’t give him a real answer, because I don’t have one I’m willing to give him right now.
The team is falling apart. And if we’re falling apart, it’s on me. Me and my inability to separate the stress of my personal life from my professional life. This will go up to the Department of Player Safety for review, and if I’m suspended, it’s going to piss off the team. It might fuck us over for the season. Playoffs aren’t until April, but every game we play moves us either closer or further away from qualifying.
And I just pulled us backwards. Way backwards.
“Locker room. Now,” Coach snaps.
I don’t argue. I won’t be allowed back on the ice tonight, so I stomp off, ignoring the eyes of my teammates burning into my back. The second I’m inside the locker room, I rip off my gloves, hurling them into my stall, and nearly rip the hinges off my locker door. My knuckles are already bruising from the punches I threw. I glance in the mirror across the room to see my eye has already begun swelling. Purple, angry skin is split over my eyebrow and dried blood coats the side of my face. My lip is busted, too.
The door slams behind me, then Coach is there, arms crossed, looking every inch the disappointed father figure I don’t need right now.I already have one of those.
Coach Abrams took a chance on me in my first season in the NHL and another one making me captain during my second season. When I was drafted onto the Wolverines, I was a hot-headed son of a bitch coming out of juniors playing the hell out of my center position. I worked my way up over the last two seasons, stopped being such an asshole to everyone, and was making a name for myself.
“I’m gonna give you a chance here, son, to tell me what the hell is going on with you,” he says without preamble. I say nothing and disappointment flickers in his eyes. A terse nod, and he continues. “Do you like being on this team, McKnight?”
We stare at each other.
“Yeah, Coach. You know I do,” I mumble out, shame flushing my cheeks.
“Then you have a real funny way of showing it. Now, I can’t help you unless you talk to me. So either figure out how to deal with whatever you have going on that’s causing you to be a liability for my team, or you’ll end up with our AHL team, who doesn’t care if you mess around on the ice.”
My eyes bug out of my head as the implication wraps around my brain. My career would never survive the embarrassment of going backwards from NHL captain to minor league hockey player.
I swallow. “Coach—” My throat is dry. He’s right. I can’t even argue. It would be stupid to keep a player who causes problems on and off the ice. I’m doing nothing to get our team where we need to be.
He cuts me off with a wave of his hand and my stomach sinks like a stone. I’ve never seen Coach this pissed at me.
Then he’s gone, leaving me standing in the empty locker room, blood still pounding in my ears. The teamhas been struggling hard this season. My guys aren’t getting along on or off the ice. We were strong last season, but there had been retirements and trades all at the same time, and we were stuck learning how to play with a new roster.
I can’t seem to pull the team morale together. We’re losing games, and honestly, at this rate? We’ll be lucky to evenmakeit to the playoffs.
Coach made a mistake when he put me in charge.
I lean my head against the cool exterior of my metal locker. All my adrenaline is wearing off, and the injuries I sustained tonight are starting to scream.