Page 6

KAYDEN

T hat son of a bitch! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a hit as awkward as the one Trevor Trombley put on Erik.

Worse, Erik looked like a rag doll when slammed into the boards and landing on the ice.

I seized right up when I saw it, wanting to put my hands over my eyes.

Look, I’m all for rough-and-tough play, but doing that to a guy on purpose is total bullshit.

I could tell by the look of Trombley that he’d been on a mission from the very start.

I couldn’t just stand there with my thumb up my ass. Oh no, I couldn’t let him take a shot at my teammate and do nothing about it. That’s not hockey.

I headed straight for Trombley, not giving a shit that he was bigger and stronger than me. I didn’t care about consequences. I didn’t care that he was Frankenstein on skates. This guy was mine.

The moment I caught up with him, I knocked the stick out of his hand, dropped my gloves, snatched his jersey with both my hands, and drew him in close.

Then I cocked a fist back and drove it into his jaw.

His head snapped back, making me think of those inflatable clowns that pop back up for more punishment after you punch them.

It would’ve been funny if this hadn’t been a totally serious situation.

Spit flew out of his mouth, and the whole thing seemed to happen in slow motion. I delivered another blow, this one mashing his nose.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He practically spat the words out.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing putting a hit on my man like that?”

Even in that moment, I knew how weird that sounded.

My man .

I’d meant to say my teammate , honest, but my man were the words that spilled out. I’d focused on that so much that I didn’t notice Trombley’s bloodied face or that his eyes had practically bored holes through me.

When Trombley grabbed my jersey, seizing control, I felt trapped. He delivered a fist, destined for my mouth, but I dodged it, so the punch only grazed my face. I still sensed the blow, understanding that it would probably feel worse later.

Then I took another shot at the asshole, my fist striking his chin, but with nowhere near the velocity and fierceness I’d wanted.

That was okay. I wasn’t even close to being finished with him.

But this is where things get even crazier.

All of a sudden, I found myself outside Mister Goodbar again, and Trevor Trombley was the punk who’d barked up the wrong tree.

Before I could take another shot, a set of hands burrowed its way in between us.

Somewhere in what felt like a faraway distance, the sound of a whistle blowing at us echoed.

Just because I heard the whistle didn’t mean I had to heed.

After all, I had an ass to kick, and my heart hammered too hard to think about cooling my jets.

Another set of hands tried to pry us apart, and the sound of whistles turned cacophonous.

“Come on, you two, break it up,” a voice said.

But I wouldn’t listen. I wanted a piece of this guy in the worst way and wouldn’t stop until I had it.

For a moment, I honestly thought they would need to use the Jaws of Life to separate us. My fingers dug into Trombley’s jersey and his into mine. We’d reached a stalemate, but I wouldn’t stop until Trombley had been beaten up properly.

“Goddamn it, would you two stop!?” one ref shouted.

I felt an arm hook around my midsection, followed by the sense of being pried away from Trombley. Thank God he didn’t get in a free shot. I kept one arm outstretched, like I could still get a piece of him if I wanted to. Mostly, I wanted him to know this wasn’t over.

When I glanced down, I noticed one of the referees had an arm around my midsection and guided me toward the penalty box. I watched another referee pushing Trombley toward the opposite penalty box where he’d already spent his share of time.

The penalty box made me feel like a caged animal, dying to get out to satisfy my thirst for blood. Before you ask, the answer is no, I don’t mean that as a figure of speech. I wanted to break out of the penalty box just so I could take another run at that asshole Trombley.

My mind would’ve stayed fixed on that thought, too, if it weren’t for seeing the crowd gathered around Erik.

My man.

Oh my God, I couldn’t believe I’d thought that again.

Saying it out loud before giving Trombley a knuckle sandwich and hopefully knocking out a second tooth was one thing.

Thinking of that again while sitting in the penalty box was another.

Watching Erik lay motionless on the ice felt like a hook to the gut, one worse than when I’d seen him take that insanely brutal shot.

Come on, dude, get up… I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping he would be okay when I opened them. When I did, he remained on the ice, perfectly still. I drew a deep breath to ease the agony.

Normally, I didn’t worry about those things, but crowds didn’t shroud a player unless he was seriously hurt. Instead of eyeing the opposing penalty box and giving Trombley something to worry about, I focused on the crowd around Erik.

EMTs wheeled a stretcher onto the ice. I closed my eyes and tightened my grip around my stick.

This was going to be bad. I didn’t regret pushing him to play harder.

That’s hockey. He had to learn to stand his ground sometime, even if it meant getting hurt.

Problem was, I didn’t mean for him to be hurt this badly.

You probably know it already, but the whole thing cut through me like a rusty razor.

The next few minutes stretched out like an eternity. Oh yeah, I know how totally cliché that sounds, but you sit in a penalty box, watching EMTs tend to the guy you’d twice thought of as your man and not worry.

Moments later, the circle around Erik broke, and the stretcher was secured and lifted. The crowd cheered for my teammate—not my man, thank you very much—as the EMTs carted him off the ice. Even the cheering sounded as distant as the whistles when the referees had broken up the fight.

Play resumed and I was only a spectator, at least for the next few minutes. Again, I didn’t regret a damn thing. I knew Coach Hardison would back me up on that later. Like I said, you don’t let anyone pull that bullshit on your teammates. Use your fists to make your point if necessary.

And I wouldn’t stop using my fists.

When the referees sprung me from the penalty box, I headed straight for Trombley.

“Come here, you little son of a bitch,” I said, not caring whether he could hear me from that distance.

When I charged toward him, the crowd and even the other players and referees disappeared.

I didn’t care how much bigger he was than me.

I’d handled him once before and would’ve smoked him if the refs hadn’t broken it up.

I caught up with Trombley, leaned in, drove my shoulder into his side, checking him into the boards.

“What the fuck are you doing, asshole?” he grunted, swiped at me, and missed.

“I told you that you aren’t putting a hit on my man like that.”

Those two words again. Shit. The first time was an accident, the second time less of an accident. But the third? How the hell would I explain that?

I wouldn’t think about that anymore. I had an ass to kick.

The game itself didn’t mean shit to me anymore.

All I wanted was a great big piece of Trevor Trombley.

Judging from those piercing eyes, I’d become public enemy number one for him too.

When I checked him into the boards again, he stiff-armed me back.

Then he paused. We both knew what was meant to happen.

We both dropped our gloves onto the ice. I delivered a blow to Trombley’s jaw. Everything returned to slow motion. I watched my fist connect with his face like watching a video replay frame by frame.

Trombley landed a shot of his own to my jaw, making my head turn.

I wish I could say that I came out of this thing squeaky clean, but the monster did score at least one punch.

I didn’t feel it, but it happened all right.

That didn’t matter to me, though. I wouldn’t feel satisfied until I’d destroyed him.

“Okay, you two, break it up, break it up.” It sounded like multiple voices saying the same thing, like a weird echo mixed with a chorus of whistles.

One referee actually burrowed in between Trombley and me because that was the only way to separate us. I tried throwing more punches but didn’t come close with any of them. Once they did separate us, another referee pushed me back, eyeing me like I’d committed murder.

“Okay, that’s enough trouble out of you,” the ref said. “You’re out of here!”

I smiled at him. I didn’t give a shit. He could’ve thrown me out of ten games, and I would’ve done it all the exact same way.

Watching Trombley try to wrestle his way past two officials, just to get another piece of me, gave me a totally different feeling of satisfaction.

No matter what, I’d stuck to my guns and did the right thing, no matter what crazy shit had come out of my mouth.

I left the ice to the sound of the crowd cheering for me, but all I could think about was Erik.