Tully ducks Patrick’s follow-up punch and grabs Patrick’s jersey with both hands, yanking him in close, and makes contact again with Patrick’s chin. Blood is flying. It’s hard to tell who it’s coming from.
Players from both teams surround them, fists flying everywhere. The crowd loses its mind. The referees get involved, pulling players apart. Tully’s panting, blood dripping from his nose, and Patrick’s laughing through a split lip, wiping the blood with his sleeve.
The refs give both a five-minute penalty. It happened before the puck dropped, so the penalties carry over. The crowd’s still roaring—half cheering the sheer brutality, half chanting Patrick’s name like he’s a hero. He knew it was safer to do that on his home turf; anywhere else, the fans wouldn’t be on his side as much.
Tully skates to the box. His helmet is crooked, and there’s blood smeared across his cheek. He doesn’t look at the camera. Just sits there, breathing hard, and staring straight ahead.
My phone goes crazy.
Isla
Hey. How are you?
I sigh and would laugh if I weren’t such a wreck. She’s trying to check up on me without bringing up the game, just in case I’m not watching it.
Not great. Watching this shit show.
Isla
Ugh. I hoped you weren’t seeing that.
I can’t look away.
My text thread with Briar and Juni is next.
Briar
I hope you really are running errands.
Juni
I have a sneaking suspicion she’s not.
I saw it.
Juni
They went at it as soon as the game started!
Briar
It was hard to tell who won the fight. My money’s on Tully. He looks stronger! He’s built like a very, very hot tank. A tank who just seems more down-to-earth. Is that true—is he? Is it okay to ask that?
A lot of people are, compared to Patrick. But yes, Tully is one of the most down-to-earth people I’ve ever met.
I watch the replay loop in slow motion.
Daniel didn’t want me to be a distraction, which is just one of many reasons I stayed away. But watching Tully fight Patrick like that—when he’s usually so calm and levelheaded—I think maybe I’m a distraction anyway.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NEVER WILL
TULLY
My face is a mess. My left eye is bruised purple and still partially shut, and my nose is swollen like I headbutted a goalpost. Close enough—Patrick Martin’s fist slammed into me pretty good. No stitches on the lip, just a fat split that stings. I’m sitting on the bench in front of my stall after our first period, loosening my skates slower than usual.
The words Patrick spewed before the gloves flew are still echoing: “Lola figured it out years ago, Whitman. Knew you were too much of a pussy to ever fight for her.”