Page 65

Crew

A fter yesterday’s game and the fight last night, I had half a dozen bruises on my body.

That’s doubled since the puck dropped.

St. Cloud wasn’t just out for blood. They were out for broken bones and concussions.

That’s what it seemed like at least, given the brutality of this game tonight.

The conference title was on the line, but it seemed like the cohesiveness and dexterity of our line was falling apart.

After last night, every single one of us had a target on our back, and it showed. This wasn’t just a hockey game anymore. It wasn’t just a trophy. It was fucking personal.

In the first period, we just took it, all of us getting pummeled while St. Cloud’s players were getting rotated in and out of the penalty box.

But we weren’t so gracious in the second period. After twenty-five minutes of us getting checked, tripped, pushed, and charged, we’d fucking had it.

TJ, Matt, and I were playing dirty, and we knew it. I didn’t care anymore if I spent a few minutes in the penalty box. I was tired of being a personal punching bag.

By the start of the third, I’d managed to find myself in the sin bin for charging. Again. Only this time, I wasn’t alone.

Xander Hicks sat as far from me as the bench allowed, getting tossed in here for tripping Lane. Again.

While the rest of us were taking savage hits, Lane was getting fucking massacred. They might as well have pinned him down and beat him with his own hockey stick.

But in honorable Lane fashion, he didn’t bother engaging in the dirty plays; he was too smart for that, too classy.

I sat there catching my breath in the penalty box, caged in. Surrounded by the student section on three sides, this was most definitely the loudest seat in the arena.

On my half, guys were chanting my name and girls were hollering at me.

On Hicks’ half, everyone was screaming at him to go fuck himself.

Ah, the joys of a home game.

Blocking out the raucous the best I could, I stayed focused on the game of four on four happening in front of me. Stick held tight, I gulped in dry, freezing air as I glanced up at the scoreboard.

Three-to-three. Eleven minutes left of the game.

Lane had the puck in his possession, and he zoomed across the ice like he had rockets on his feet instead of skates. He trickled through the maze of jerseys with no problem, taking the puck just outside the crease before getting met by Silas’s shoulder.

As Lane flew through the air and onto his back, I swore I could feel the blow. I stood to get a better look, cringing through it.

I’d taken a similar hit earlier in the season, when I’d gotten distracted from trying to find Kota in the crowd. Lane had been the first one by my side, and it pained me that I couldn’t be the first one there for him now.

Matt lifted Lane effortlessly, helping him to his feet before leaning in to whisper something to him.

Even from fifteen feet away, I could see the surge of fury blossoming in Matt’s eyes. Gulping, I plopped my ass down. I recognized that look.

Someone was about to get their fucking ass beat.

I was appalled when the whistle wasn’t blown, feeling my stomach drop as Lane skated off slowly, free hand holding his back.

That hit should’ve been called. Not that I wanted to sit next to Silas for my final minute in this torture box, but it would’ve been better than having him out there with Lane.

When the puck was back in play, Matt didn’t seem to give a fuck where it was at. Like the cunning and vicious psycho that he was, he waited for the puck to be passed to Silas, and right when it made contact with Silas’s stick, Matt charged him.

Coach threw his hands in the air, veins visibly bulging out of his neck while he screamed at Matt, who was getting led our way by two refs.

Matt was already reaching for his helmet before the glass was shut behind him. He casually popped it off and shook his head like a dog, sweat flying off him.

“Ew, what the hell, Matt!” I shouted.

“Sorry,” he said, bumping me over to take the seat beside the glass. He angled towards me, “I was trying just to aim for Hicks.”

Pretending like he hadn’t heard Matt’s comment, Hicks stood, ready to be let out.

And now it was three on five. Fantastic. Great fucking timing, Matt.

Luckily, it was only for twenty seconds, and the guys managed to keep St. Cloud at bay. Stepping in front of the door, I blew out a heavy breath and glanced back at Matt.

He smiled. “See you in two minutes.”

I dashed onto the ice, ready to play. For those two minutes of Matt being locked up, it was the same old shit. Hard hits, aggressive steals, and shit talk, which was mostly directed towards Lane.

I could see his patience wearing down, and I hoped he had the control left to hold all the pent-up anger in for just seven more minutes while we tried to get one more goal.

The play ended, and everyone caught their breath, skating around themselves. Head low, I studied the glazed ice. I wanted this game series to be over; I sure as hell did not want to play another game like this tomorrow.

I felt like one giant, breathing bruise. My lip was busted open, and my muscles were a strange, contradicting combination of both stiff and jelly-like.

Even if we did win this game, I wasn’t sure how enjoyable our celebration would be afterwards.

Catching brisk movement out of the corner of my eye, I glanced up as whistles were blown, one after another.

Lane was atop Silas, gloves abandoned as he wailed on him over and over.

So much for holding in his anger.

Instead of pulling them apart, everyone took it as a thumbs up to have their own round two. Sticks and gloves were scattered around the ice, silver jerseys paired with red ones as fists flew.

Turning around myself, only to see refs struggling to control the fights and small puddles of red beginning to stain the ice, I couldn’t even tell where Hicks was.

Until I caught him speeding in Lane’s direction.

I put everything I had into catching up to him, which wasn’t much with my waning energy, but I managed, launching into him shortly before he could reach Lane.

There weren’t enough refs to control the situation, and one by one, each fight was getting broken up.

A fistful of my jersey was tugged upwards, pulling me with it. I didn’t fight the ref on it, letting him escort me back to the penalty box for the fourth time.

More and more players were getting added to the box, squeezing us in like a can of sardines. As I stood there for a faint moment, my ears ringing from the roar of three-thousand people, I waited for them to bring Lane.

Pushing through two St. Cloud players to get a view of the ice, all the blood drained from my face. They were forcing him the other way.

He’d been ejected from the game.