“Fuck, St. James.” He snorts. “I’d give up my letter if two of my guys got into a fight on the ice.”
The chirp lands exactly as he intended, and I’m distracted for just an instant.
It’s enough.
McAllister wins the face-off, but Hardy manages to steal the puck and reverse it behind the net to D-Vo. He brings it around and takes the shot, but it’s deflected. The Rangers’ defender picks up the rebound and then he’s on the breakaway, flying down the ice toward Boosh.
I skate hard, trying to catch him, but he’s got a solid head start.
My temple throbs and my throat burns, but I can’t think about that right now.
The clock is running and there are only seconds to go. This play will decide the outcome of the game.
Come on, Boosh. You’ve fucking got this.
The defender dekes, but Boosh has his number. He makes the save, and the puck bounces off his stick. I pivot, but I’m on the wrong side. One of the Ranger’s forwards gets to it first and crashes the net.
The puck slips behind Boosh’s back, and that’s the game.
We lose 2-3.
My heart sinks. I’ve let Coach down—again.
The team is quiet as we make our way back to the locker room
They’re probably shell-shocked by the events of the third period.
God knows I am.
I still can’t wrap my head around it. I’ve never witnessed two guys from the same team drop gloves, and I’ve been playing this game my whole life.
It’s as rare as a goalie fight.
In the locker room, I place my helmet in the stall and drop onto the bench, exhausted.
The instant the door closes behind Cunningham, Coach whirls on us.
“What the fuck happened out there?”
The assistant coaches line up in front of the door like a barricade, preventing anyone from making a quick escape. Then again, maybe their goal is to prevent anyone from witnessing this humiliating moment.
It’s bad enough the entire world saw what happened on the ice.
Ava was in the stands. She saw everything.
Fuck. She’s going to be so disappointed in us—in me.
No one says anything, and I climb to my feet, feeling like absolute shit. “I’m sorry, Coach. We let you down tonight, and we let ourselves down too.”
Shame burns through me like acid.
“You’re goddamn right you did.” Brows flat, he turns to Fedorov, who’s sporting a busted lip. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“What wasIthinking?” He jabs himself in the chest and then points to Kristiansen. “What about him? He is the one who did not do his job. He is the one who is supposed to protect BabyGlider, and yet he did nothing. His old teammates took shot after shot, and still he did nothing.”
Kristiansen glares at him, his left eye already swelling behind an ice pack. “I didn’t see anyone else, including you, doing anything about it.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Fedorov leaps to his feet, Russian flying from his mouth fast and furious. I don’t know what he’s saying, but his meaning is clear. The rest of the second line joins in, shouting and arguing about who’s to blame, and just when I think it can’t get any worse, there’s a knock at the door.