The third quarter is a slugfest, and when Johnson attempts to block a shot with his body, it bounces off his skate and between Bouchard’s legs.
It’s a total fluke, but that only makes it worse.
We’re tied 2-2 with a minute thirty left on the clock when Coach calls for subs.
Being benched at such a critical moment grates, but I’ll get another shot at the goal. With the game tied up and the clock running down, Coach will revert to the first line if the second line doesn’t score.
McGinnis takes the ice, a determined set to his jaw as he joins the fray. The Rangers have the puck deep in their own zone, and our forecheck is keeping the pressure on. McGinnis forces a turnover, and it looks like he’s going to make a breakaway, but he gets checked into the boards—hard.
The hit is high and dirty, and I’d bet my contract the rookie is seeing stars.
The ref calls the penalty, and as he’s making the announcement, Fedorov and Kristiansen get into a scuffle. Fedorov shoves the larger man, and at first Kristiansen seems to shrug him off, but then he drops his gloves.
Fedorov follows suit, and then they’re squaring up, fists raised.
What in the ever-loving fuck?
Fedorov darts forward, landing a right hook, and then Kristiansen’s got a handful of his jersey and he’s thumping him, delivering blow after blow. The bench goes nuts, guys shouting on both sides of me. The arena is so loud it’s impossible to hear what anyone is saying, but I can’t believe my fucking eyes.
The second line is imploding. My guys are literally beating the shit out of each other on the ice.
What the hell is going on right now?
On the Rangers’ bench, players shout and tap their sticks, clearly enjoying the show.
Motherfuckers.
Graves makes to jump over the wall, and I grab his arm. “You can’t.”
The penalty will be far worse if anyone leaves the bench. It doesn’t matter that it’s a same team fight.
Fedorov lands a punch, and Kristiansen’s helmet goes flying.
It slides across the ice, spinning like a top, but neither man seems to notice.
Fedorov lands a few more rib shots, and then Kristiansen takes him to the ice.
The refs charge in, pulling the men apart, and it’s all I can do not to go kick their asses myself. This bullshit could cost us the game. What the hell were they thinking?
Both players are assessed five-minute major penalties, and Fedorov also gets hit with a delay of game, adding another two minutes. They’ll both be spending the rest of the game in the penalty box.
The only positive is that the Rangers also got a two-minute penalty for an illegal check to the head, meaning we won’t be shorthanded.
Coach turns to me. “We can’t let this go to OT.”
No kidding. OT is our kryptonite, and we’re already hanging by a thread, the guys on the bench stealing furtive glances at thepenalty box—where Fedorov and Kristiansen sit side by side—every chance they get.
It’ll be a meme within the hour.
Serves them right.
Coach gives me the play, and I take the ice with forty-seconds left on the clock.
Forty seconds is an eternity in hockey. Anything can happen.
I just need to keep my head in the game. I’ll find out what Fedorov and Kristiansen were fighting about soon enough.
McAllister and I face off in the Rangers’ end zone.