I silence the phone and let it ring a couple more times before he finally gets the message and stops calling.
I could’ve declined it, but in his twisted brain, he’d have seen it as a challenge and would’ve kept calling me. It’s better to let his calls go to voicemail.
Determined to keep my head on straight and focus on the game ahead, I take a quick shower, grab my duffel, cap, and car keys, and head out to the arena for a quick practice before the game tonight.
* * *
The day bleeds into night, and I find myself staring down the Toronto players as we head into the final period.
My breaths fog the visor, the sound of thecrowd turning into a static buzz, as I put all of my awareness and strength into blocking their shots.
Toronto is playing dirty; they’re desperate to win. Totally reasonable, but what’s not reasonable is ramming my guys into the boards, sliding their sticks between my team’s blades with the intention to give them an injury that might end their career.
With each period, they’ve been getting too cocky, too reckless, and too annoying for me to keep my mounting anger in check.
I hold on to it, hold on to the rage simmering under my skin and expelling it the right way by stopping each of their shots and rebounds. But even a non-violent guy like me has his limit, and that’s tested the moment the puck for the final period drops.
Their dirty fucking play starts once again when the puck rims around the boards behind my net. I track it automatically, shoulders tight, stick angled to cut off the wraparound lane. Their winger crashes the corner harder than necessary, driving our defenseman, Levi, into the glass with a bone-rattling hit.
I glance up the ice through the cage of my mask to see the puck squirting loose to the slot.
“Shot!” someone yells, as my team tries their damnest to get the puck into their possession.
A slap shot explodes off the blade, and I drop into the butterfly instinctively—pads flaring, chest square, leaving no space to reach inside. The puck hammers into my blocker and ricochets straight down into the crease.
Rebound.
That’s when the true chaos ensues.
I see it before it happens.
Their center barrels in like a freight train, stick swinging wildly for the loose puck. Instead of jamming it toward the net, he plows straight into me. Hard.
His shoulder slams into my chest protector and sends me sprawling backward into the goal frame. My mask snaps sideways. The net jolts off its pegs.
Then the cocky bastard does something he shouldn’t.
While I’m down in the blue paint, he shoves the blade of his stick into my ribs and jabs again, trying to dig the puck out from under my pads.
Pain flares in my body.
For a split second, the arena goes dead silent in my ear—even the buzzing stops.
And then all hell breaks fucking loose.
“No one touches my goalie!” Ezra’s voice reaches from somewhere behind the douchebag.
I barely have time to get back up when Seb launches himself across the crease like a heat-seeking missile. When I finally do get back to my feet, a drop of sweat falling over my lashes, it’s to see the gloves dropping.
Ezra is not far behind as he fists the front of their center’s jersey and yanks him backward, far from me, shoving Seb back and handling it on his own. Ezra’s face screams murder, and a lesser person would really be afraid for their life.
Seb grabs the guy who stuck his stick between his blades in the last period, and Levi punches the guy who slammed him into the boards.
On the ice, every player has grabbed one from the other team as they erupt into a fight. Sticks clatter across the ice, gloves scatter like dead birds. Bodies slam into the boards and the ice, the referees’ whistles falling on dead ears.
It’s a full line brawl, and the crowd is eating it the fuck up as they shake the arena with their screams, hands tapping the plexiglass.
I catch my breath, the pain still flaring as I take in the chaos. Our captain is in the middle of itnow, shoving their center backward while shouting something I can’t hear.