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She scowled and shook her head. “No, it isn’t.”

“They’re probably just being thorough,” Sims chimed in. “They said it was clean and wouldn’t review it, so they’re probably worried they missed something.”

Sabrina and I both considered it, then shrugged. She might’ve been right.

As the replay appeared above our heads, dramatically slowed down, I had to assume the New York coach’s heart was sinking. It was so obviously not goaltender interference. It had been obvious in the moment and in the initial replay, and in the super slow motion from above? Good God. The stick hadn’t even interfered with Sabrina as much as I’d thought initially. At this speed, it was clear the only contact made between Sabrina and the netminder was the netminder bumping Sabrina’s calfaftershe’d made the shot. And that was well outside the crease, too.

If that was goaltender interference, I’d eat my visor.

The referees broke from their huddle by the penalty box, and one skated to the blue line. Instantly, the entire arena again fell silent.

“After review of the coach’s challenge,” the referee’s voice echoed through the stadium, “there is no goaltender interference.” She made a gesture like an umpire declaring a baserunner safe, and the mix of boos and cheers almost maskedwhen she added, “We have a good goal.” Then she motioned toward New York’s bench. “New York has a two-minute penalty for delay of game. Pittsburgh will have a two-minute power play.”

Beside me, Sabrina flashed a toothy grin. “Well, then.” She tapped her stick against mine. “Let’s see if we can put another in the net.”

Sounded like a plan to me.

But about twelve seconds into my next shift, someone checked Sabrina hard from behind. Not a penalty, but I saw red.

Especially when I realized it was the same little shit who’d boarded Laws earlier.

Fuck it. We had a solid lead with only a handful of minutes to go.

I skated in front of her, locking eyes, and I dropped my gloves.

She flung off her gloves too, and as we squared off, her expression said,“Bring it on.”

Game on, then.

I swung first, then grabbed a handful of her jersey. She did the same, but missed. The second time, her fist connected with my nose, which stunned me enough for her to throw me off-balance. As soon as I realized I was going down, I threw myself toward her, using her arm and her jersey for leverage.

She hit the ice first with me straddling her.

Then the refs were hauling us apart, blowing their whistles like their lives depended on it as our teammates banged their sticks on the ice and boards. The crowd was a mix of cheers and boos—typical.

I let the ref pull me up, and she barked, “Get in the box and clean yourself up.”

Clean myself—

Oh. The telltale trickle above my upper lip told me I was bleeding, and when I touched my lip, my fingers indeed came away with a smear of blood.

Eh. I’d won the fight. I could live with a bloody nose.

I skated across the ice to the boos of the New York fans and the cheers of those from Pittsburgh. I sat down in the box and pressed a towel to my face. The bleeding wasn’t too bad. My nose throbbed a little, and my jaw was sore. Had she hit me in the jaw, too? Maybe I’d caught an elbow on the way down. Everything had happened so fast, I’d lost track of every way we’d made contact.

She dropped into the other box and shouted something at me through the glass, but I ignored her. As heated as I was about her dirty checks—especially boarding Laws—I’d learned long ago that nothing pissed off a fired-up player more than ignoring them. She’d get even angrier, shouting and gesticulating at me, while I cooled down and caught my breath.

By the time our five-minute penalty was over, I’d be calm and collected. Hell, I already was—I’d defended my teammates and let her know that kind of bullshit wasn’t okay. I wasn’t fired up anymore. From the screaming and banging on the glass beside me? Well, that was the kind of pissed off that often led to sloppy play and costly penalties.

Keep it up, dear. Be my guest.

Oh, she did. When our penalties were over, only two minutes remained on the clock. A smart coach would’ve kept her fuming defender on the bench, but apparently she thought the better approach was to turn the angry player loose anyway. They’d pulled their goalie from the net so they could have a sixth skater on the ice, and they were valiantly trying to score the two goals they’d need to tie up the game.

Number thirty-six—the one I’d fought—decided that would be a good time to cross check Laws, which caused her to lose the puck.

The whistle blew.

New York’s coach started losing her mind.