Page 26 of Break the Ice

Just about every woman I’ve come across except Sugar Tits.

But even bitter thoughts about her and her cold shoulder can’t dent my ego.

I’m the superstar of this fucked up team and everybody knows it.

My dribbles are smooth and quick. I’m cradling the puck, rolling it out the back of my stick blade so skillfully that Morasca doesn’t stand a chance.

He tries like hell on defense, applying pressure. The vein on his temple throbs while he leads with his stick and tries to strip the puck from me. The farther into the defensive zone I make it, the sloppier his stick work becomes. The more frantic and frustrated he gets, trying his damnedest to contain me.

It becomes obvious he’s outmatched.

I slice across the ice, driving the puck ’til I’m within a few feet of the goal crease. Phil rushes to keep up with me, blade for blade. Understanding dawns on his rosy-tinged face as he seems to anticipate what’s next.

He thinks he’s got me. He’s preparing to block.

I shift my body as if to go left. He mirrors me on the right. My fake out works. He’s left guarding air as I quickly slide all the way to the right and get the puck into position.

I take my shot before he ever has a chance to blink.

Score!

Half of the team erupts in cheers. Morasca’s loyalists make sour faces.

It’s the start of a trend. Me on offense and Morasca desperately playing defense.

Coach makes us square off five times. All five, I drive the puck into his defensive zone and execute a smooth maneuver to find my way to the crease. Then I’m shooting and scoring, the puck sliding home into the goal.

After the fifth and final time, I take my gloating to the next level. I skate a circle around Phil and pump a fist into the air.

“Best to ever do it—keeps the ladies coming back for more!”

Something large and powerful slams into me from behind. I’m knocked off balance and sent crashing down onto the ice.

I’m down for only a millisecond before I get what the fuck’s happened.

Morasca’s speared me.

9. Rafe

Morasca’s got no clue the can of worms he’s just opened.

There’s no one in the league who loves a good brawl more than I do. I’m not known as the NHL’s bad boy for nothing. I’ll knock somebody’s teeth out and then make a souvenir necklace for shits and giggles.

I push myself up off the ice in time to block Morasca’s follow-up blow. We lock onto each other and wrestle for the upper hand. I’m able to get under him enough to straighten my back and bend my knees. I lift Morasca up over me and slam him down on the ice.

Chaos erupts on the rink. The team races toward us. We go at each other ’til the bitter end, with fists sailing left and right and blood splattering everywhere.

I’m pulled away from Morasca by several guys. Others crowd around Morasca, huffing and dribbling blood on ice. I’m in better shape as I’m led away from the floor, though I’ve got a nasty gash on my brow.

Trent shoves me into the back. “What the hell was that, Alpha?”

Somebody else on my left—a right wing by the name of Adam Foley—lets me know he agrees. “You snap like that and you’re out before the season even starts.”

I shrug them both off and let them know I don’t give a fuck. “He started something he’d never finish! I did nothing more than give him a helping hand!”

“You know coach’s policy about physical confrontations. Even during practice?—”

“Morasca wanted a brawl, I gave him a brawl! I’m thoughtful like that.”