Page 14

"Touch her again, and I will end you."

James Adler

We skate into position for the first face-off of the night. And because he’s a winger, just like me, Lucas Rogers is just inches away.

I keep my eyes trained on him, the annoying glint in his eyes only fueling my anger. I know Elizabeth is in the stands tonight, but I don’t allow myself even a fleeting glance. Right now, Rogers has my full attention.

I throw off my gloves the second the puck drops and launch myself at him. My attack takes him by surprise, but he retaliates fast. “What, not eno ugh to have my leftovers, Adler? Now you want a piece of me too?” he sneers, and I punch him right in the face.

The referees are quick to end the fight. Too quick. My wrath is nowhere near unleashed yet, but I’m forced to skate to the penalty box, my fists clenched and chest heaving.

Those five minutes feel like five hours.

And when my time is up, Coach is waiting on the bench, red-faced and yelling at me.

His words barely register—something about keeping my head in the game and not letting him get to me.

But Rogers has it in for me too and keeps coming after me.

So naturally, I return fire. He’s skating along the boards when I line him up, pure instinct taking over.

When I crush him into the glass with everything I’ve got, the impact reverberates through my body like the recoil of a gun.

He slumps forward, momentarily stunned, but then he speeds off.

The grin plastered on his face stokes the fires of my mounting frustration.

We’re nearing the end of the first period, and with zero goals scored, we’re all a little on edge.

I dig my skates into the ice, going hard after the puck.

Miles snatches it from the Sharks’ center and sends it flying, so I hurry after it.

It’s just me and Rogers, and I’m not letting him get possession of it.

I’m ahead of him, only a few feet from the puck.

I extend my stick and take control of it, but then I feel a sharp hit in the middle of the back.

I’m propelled forward, my head smashing into the boards.

Everything gets loud around me, with players hitting each other and cursing. Then, it’s all quiet. And blurry.

I want to tell them I’m fine, that they can stop. Heck, I want to get in on the fight, but when I try to stand up, I fall backward.

Something warm rolls along my cheeks, followed by an intense pain in my face. And then, nothing. Before long, my headache overwhelms me, and there’s a ringing in my ears. I open my eyes to see the docs kneeling down beside me.

“Do you know where you are?” asks Clark, one of our team docs.

“Hockey game. Just got hit.”

“That’s right. Can you move your arms and legs?” he continues, speaking directly in my ear.

I kick my feet on the ice, though they’re heavy as a ton of bricks.

“What about your fingers? Can you feel your back?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Any head pain?”

“Yes,” I reply, glancing to the side to see some of my teammates with dark looks on their faces. I want to make a joke, tell them I’ll be back on th e ice in a minute, but that headache keeps kicking me down.

“Okay, James. Your nose is bleeding pretty heavily, and you lost consciousness for a second, so we’re going to take you to the hospital to run some tests, okay?”

“Can’t we do it after the game?”

“Afraid not. You got hit pretty bad,” he says, standing up.

Moments later, they’re strapping me to a backboard and lifting me onto a stretcher. It feels a little extreme. We’re hockey players, after all. We’re tougher than that.

“They got you,” Hawthorne says, stopping next to me and patting my leg. “You’ll be fine, man.”

“Get better, bro,” Miles says, a deep frown etched onto his face as he looks at me.

The crowd bursts into cheers followed by stick taps and applause. The stretcher starts moving, and I give the fans a thumbs-up to show them I’m fine. Louder cheers erupt, and I’m bombarded by more well wishes and pats from my team and the Sharks as I’m being taken away.

In my peripheral vision, I notice Rogers, looking a little pale. I stretch my arms, signaling for the medical team to stop the stretcher, then I beckon him toward me.

The arena quiets down as he shuffles forward. “Look man, I’m sorry,” he starts, leaning over me. But I don’t want his apologies. It was a bad hit , and it was intentional. He’s only regretting it now because things got serious.

No, I’m not looking for an apology. There’s only one thing I want to say to him.

“Touch her again,” I growl, looking him dead in the eye. “And I will end you.”

His eyes widen slightly, and he straightens his back as they haul me toward the edge of the ice and through the Zamboni tunnel.