Page 68 of Puck, Marry, Kill

When the clock sounds the end of the second period, the teams disappear into the locker rooms and the Zamboni drives out. Harley is normally rapt with attention anytime the Zamboni appears, but tonight, he’s glancing from me to Penny with eyes wide with confusion. But we don’t have answers about what’s going on either.

Chapter 24

Dominic

“That was some fucking bullshit out there, Lee, and you know it! Go suck your boys’ dicks if you want, but don’t screw us over in the process!” Anderson yells from the other side of the locker room as he throws his helmet at the wall. It hits the cinder block and bounces back, sporting a large crack that’ll mean Anderson’s going to be wearing a new helmet come gametime tomorrow.

Final score:Hawks 2, Blizzard 1.

“Check your fucking tongue, Anderson. They’re number one in the league for a reason,” Kipson informs Anderson. He’s sitting on the bench closest to his locker, but he might as well be standing in front of me protectively for the effect his statement has.

“Oh, so you two are all buddy-buddy now?” Anderson sneers, pointing from Kipson to me.

“Teammates,” Kipson says with a shrug before wiping his face down with a towel. But he shoots me a sideways glance, wordlessly asking,You gonna help with this shit show or not?

This game was a loss before we ever hit the ice.

From the moment we arrived, Anderson was on a rampage, sounding like a testosterone-addled rager with repetitive roars of “Let’s fucking gooooo!” that echoed through the whole locker roomand chest thumping on par with the worst of Tarzan theatrics. I was surprised our sports medicine team didn’t try to stop him before his heart spasmed. Then he spent Coach’s pregame prep time shit-talking about knocking the high and mighty Hawks down a peg or two. As his coup de grâce, he got in my face, declaring that I’d better do my fucking job before boldly suggesting to Coach that maybe I should sit this one out on account of me being “he-motional.” When Kipson had told Anderson to shut the fuck up, he’d reared up at Kipson, too, going so far as to say that it was high time he started pulling his weight again, too, because the whole team had been carrying his dead weight since last year.

And while Sabine had tried to get Anderson in check, Kipson and I had silently decided we were going to do our jobs, and nothing more. Anderson could field his own damn shots. And he tried. Bless his cold, empty heart, he did. But the Hawks beat him, flat out, every time. Jacofovich especially, who has always been a beast on the ice and scored both of the Hawks’ points tonight.

“You should’ve stopped that five-hole shot, ya fucking sieve,” I snap at Anderson.

“Jack Off shouldn’t have been that close in the first place!” he barks back. “But I didn’t have any fucking defensive support. You left me hanging out there while they were crashing the net.”

“Thought you didn’t need any help. Remember?” I sneer. Throwing my voice into an approximation of his, I remind him of his pregame brags, “They won’t get shit past me. I’m gonna show ’em what it feels like to get shut out. Jack Off’s gonna get the worst edging of his life.” In my own voice, I ask, “So which is it? You’re so good you don’t need us or you suck so badly that you need us to do your job while you stand around and sip fucking tea?” I hold my hands out, weighing both options for him, though it’s a lose-lose proposition. There’s no way Anderson could’ve fended off every shot alone, and to be honest, I’m not sure all three of us playing our hardest on defense would’ve been enough. The Hawks are that good. As much as I hate to admit it,they’re even better than they were last year. Offensively, of course, not defensively.

“Where’s your rah-rah team bullshit now? Huh, Lee?” he spits out, actual spittle flying from his lip. “Is this what you call a brotherhood?”

“Oh, now you want a party invite?”

It’s a low blow. I know it as the words come out of my mouth, but I’m fucking pissed.

We had a real shot tonight. The entire team minus one player came to dinner last night. Twenty-two guys plus some of the sports med and support staff crowded into Big Boy Bowls—where I made a reservation!—and had a great meal. We talked strategy, we shared thoughts, and we hyped each other up. We were ready to go, ready to win. And it’d all gone to hell because Anderson showed up like the rottenest apple in the barrel. His tirade had set everyone on edge, and when his negativity continued on the ice with him chirping at us more than our opponents, he ruined everyone’s mental game. Including mine.

Scrubbing my hands through my hair, I growl, “Fuck.”

I take a deep breath, forcing air into my lungs to settle my mind. Calmer, I say to everyone, “Look, tonight sucked. Losing always does, but we lost in here”—I tap my temple, then point at the floor of the locker room—“and in here, before we ever hit that ice.”

I see faint nods around the room.

“I let you get to me,” I acknowledge to Anderson. “And it affected my play.”

“You’re admitting you suck?” he jabs, chuckling bitterly. “Shocker.”

“I’m admitting I could’ve played better if I’d given a shit about the man behind me. But I didn’t.” I shrug carelessly. “I don’t.” I look around at the rest of the team, who is listening closely, watching even closer. “Every other guy in this room? I’d slam my damn brother up against the boards for them. You?” I huff out a humorless laugh. “I might throw you to Honey and pop some popcorn to snack on while he fucks your shit up. That says something about us both.”

“Good to know where I stand with you,” he declares, bowing up with his hands fisted at his sides.

We’re standing chest to chest, our eyes locked, and I try to decide if he’s actually going to hit me. I’d put odds at sixty-forty in favor of him at least attempting. But while I have cold strategy on my side, he has desperation, and sometimes that’s more dangerous.

I hear feet shuffling as the guys close ranks around us.

“Come on, man, settle down,” Sabine says, trying to de-escalate the tension.

Anderson’s lip lifts the tiniest bit, triumph in the flare of his eyes. He assumes Sabine is calling me off of him, as in Sabine is on his side. His team against me.

And then Sabine’s hand lands on Anderson’s shoulder. “We’ll get them tomorrow night.”