Page 13 of Icing the Cougar (Hockey USA Collection #7)

Jasper

I’ve always loved the smell of an ice rink at game time: blood, sweat, cleaner, and some faint ghost of popcorn from the concessions.

Tonight, it hits different, though. The building is shaking with sound—fans stomping, the DJ working overtime, every glass in the place rattling like a warning.

I skate out for warmups and spot Trinity in the stands before I do my first lap.

She’s up in the second row, wearing my jersey, face buried in her hands like she’s praying I don’t do something stupid.

Sorry, babe. Odds are not in your favor.

This is the biggest home game of the year.

The Edge is packed. Every ticket sold out, every seat a little patch of red, white, and blue.

Riley is already on the ice, talking shit to the other team’s captain in that smiley, kill-you-with-kindness way he has.

I keep my head down and start my stretch, trying to drown out the chatter in my own head.

Tonight, I need to prove something. To Riley. To the coach. To the world. To her.

He sidles up next to me at the blue line, close enough that I can smell his off-brand hair product and whatever cheap cologne he’s slathered over it. “Wright,” he says, voice low, “still faking like you belong here?”

“Didn’t know they let you back in the league after that suspension,” I say, not looking at him.

He laughs. “Gotta hand it to you. You’re like a cockroach. Never die, never learn.” Then, softer, “Bet the chick in your jersey doesn’t even know what you did to get here.”

The ref skates over, signaling for teams to clear. Badger blows me a kiss, then skates away backwards, never losing eye contact. I’m pissed, but also on edge in a way I haven’t been since my first college game. The thing is, he knows. He always knows.

First period, opening faceoff. I take my spot on defense. Riley gives me a look from across the circle, a quick, you good? flick of the eyebrows. I nod, jaw tight. The puck drops. Game on.

Everything is speed and noise. I lose myself in it, like I always do, moving on instinct, trusting my body to remember how to do this when my brain wants to run.

We score first, crowd goes wild, Riley does his little point-at-the-glass celebration, which is annoying but effective.

I check the bench and see Coach grinning.

He’s watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake, but for now, I’m perfect.

Second period, a tie game. Badger is everywhere. He’s chippy, slashing my wrists, slamming me into the boards, yapping in my ear every second he gets. At first, I let it slide off. Hockey’s ninety percent trash talk. But he doesn’t let up.

“Remember that time in Duluth?” he says during a faceoff. “You ever tell your girl about juvie? You ever tell her what you did to that poor fucker in the showers?”

My head snaps up. He smiles.

“Didn’t think so.”

I want to rip his helmet off and slam his teeth into the ice, but I can’t. Not with the ref right there, not with Trinity watching, not with everything I’ve worked for on the line. Instead, I shove him hard off the draw and skate away, pretending I don’t hear him.

It gets worse. Every stoppage, every time we’re on the ice together, he’s right there, in my head, whispering poison.

“Your whole team would love to know, you know. The real you. The fuck-up from Moose Lake. The nobody who should’ve washed out years ago.” Slash across my ankle. “She’d love to know, too. I should go say hi after the game.”

He’s getting to me. I’m playing sloppy now, missing assignments, over skating, biting on every fake. Coach benches me for five minutes, and I stew, watching Badger take cheap shots at our forwards. He’s not even good, just dirty, but the refs are letting him play.

I get back on late in the second. Badger comes flying into the corner and rams me from behind, putting his stick up in my ribs. I whip around and catch him in the visor with the butt of my stick. He staggers, then laughs, and drops the gloves right there.

We go at it. Gloves off, helmets thrown. The crowd loses their mind. He’s all teeth, grinning, daring me to do it. I land the first punch. He lands the next five. My knuckles are bleeding, my nose is gushing, but I don’t care. I want him to hurt. I want to shut him up forever.

I pin him to the ice and keep swinging until the linesmen drag us apart. My ears are ringing, vision gone red and white. They go to shove us into the box, but the asshole he leans forward towards me and says, so nobody else can hear, “She’s not gonna want you when she knows. Nobody ever does.”

The ref comes over, says something, but I’m not listening. I’m locked on Badger, seeing every second of my old life flash behind his eyes. The fights. The nights in the cell. The fear that I’ll always be the same guy I was at sixteen.

With one swift move, I punch him straight in the jaw, knocking him on his ass.

The refs swarm me and toss me from the game for fighting. As I’m walking off, I hear a boo from the crowd, then a chant: “Wright! Wright! Wright!” Some of them are on my side. Most are just here for the spectacle. The one person that matters though, I can’t tell if she is cheering or hiding.

In the tunnel, my hands are shaking so bad I can barely unlace my skates. I find the first empty spot in the locker room and start stripping down, jersey off, pads tossed into the corner, helmet still leaking blood onto the floor. The medic comes in and tries to look at my face, but I wave him off.

“I’m fine,” I bark.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Don’t get blood on the gear.”

I slump onto the bench, head in my hands.

The silence is brutal. I can still hear Badger in my head, his words gnawing at everything I’ve built.

He’s right. I never talk about my past. I barely opened up to Trinity a few days ago about a little of it.

The past is supposed to stay dead, but it never does.

I wonder what she’s thinking. If she saw the fight, if she’s disgusted, if she’s already walking out of the arena, deleting my number. I want to call her, tell her it’s not what it looked like, but it is. It always is.

The rest of the team files in after the game is over, most of them ignoring me, a few giving me the side-eye. Riley sits two stalls down, pulls off his own gear, and gives me a long look. “You okay?”

“Peachy.”

He hesitates. “You know he’s an asshole, right?”

I nod, not trusting myself to talk.

“He’s not worth it,” Riley says. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“Too late.” My lip splits on the words.

Riley doesn’t say anything else. I hear the shower turn on, the low grumble of voices from the hallway, the clatter of pucks as someone clears the bench. I stare at my hands, blood still bubbling up through the cuts, and wonder how many more fights it will take to finally change who I am.

My phone buzzes in my locker. I can’t bring myself to look at it. Not yet.

I sit there, breathing, until the room is empty.

Then I finally stand up, walk to the sink, and rinse the blood from my face. The water runs red, then pink, then clear. I lean against the counter, staring at my own eyes in the mirror. I look exactly like my old man. Exactly like every mugshot I ever swore I’d never take.

I want to put my fist through the glass, but I know it wouldn’t help.

Then I think about Trinity. If she’ll forgive me. If she’ll still wear my jersey, or if she’s already left it on her seat for someone else to pick up.

My phone buzzes again.

This time, I look.

It’s her. Just one line, short and sweet.

Trinity: You okay?

I don’t know how to answer. I want to say yes. I want to say no. I want to tell her everything, but I’m afraid she’ll never look at me the same way again. Instead…

Me: Come down to the locker room. I’ll tell security to let you through.

I wait.

Maybe she won’t come.

Maybe she’s smarter than I am.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

The next five minutes feel longer than the whole game.

I pace the locker room, back and forth between my stall and the showers, hands raw and stinging, face burning.

I imagine Trinity seeing me like this—eyes swollen, lip split, blood on my neck where I missed it with the towel.

If I could climb inside a locker and shut the door, I would.

A heavy knock. I jump like I’m busted sneaking a cigarette, and then Trinity’s voice on the other side. “Can I come in?”

I clear my throat, which does nothing to fix it, and croak, “Yeah. It’s open.” I want to be cool about it. Fail. I’m a goddamn wreck.

She steps inside with her hair pulled up in a bun. She’s in jeans and a faded hoodie with my jersey over that. The only thing she says for a whole five seconds is “Holy shit.”

I try to smile. “Guess you saw the main event.”

She stands in the doorway, hands in pockets, eyes scanning me from forehead to fists. “I saw,” she says. “You okay?”

“I’ve had worse.” I’ve been stomped before. That’s not what hurts.

Trinity comes closer, her sneakers squeaking on the tile, and I brace myself for whatever she’s about to say. Maybe this is the part where she tells me it’s over, that she doesn’t date men who punch their problems. I’d deserve it.

Yet she just stands there, five feet away, and says, “You want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “Not really.” I do, but not the way she means. “You ever get so mad you can’t see straight?”

“All the time,” she says. “Usually at people who try to fix me.” A tiny smile. “Or at myself.”

I laugh, and it hurts. “Same.”

She steps up, close enough that I can smell the lavender in her shampoo. Her hand hovers by my jaw. “Can I…?”

I nod, and she touches the split lip, feather-light, eyes searching for the places I’m most damaged. “You’re going to have a shiner,” she says, tracing just under my eye. “And you’re definitely going to need stitches.”

“I was hoping for a scar. More intimidating.” I mean it as a joke, but my voice cracks and it’s embarrassing.