Page 127 of Cross Ice

I was making choices. Bad ones.

I took another penalty in the second period—roughing after the whistle. Someone was there and I was frustrated, and it was stupid. I knew it was stupid while I was doing it.

Coach cut my ice time.

By the third period, we were down 4–1.

I sat on the bench and watched the clock.

Four minutes left. New York iced the puck. Faceoff in our zone.

I hopped the boards for the draw. Their center won it cleanly. Standard play. Their winger came across the blue line and bumped Thompson—clean hit, legal, just hockey.

And something in me snapped.

Not because of the hit. Because I was exhausted, losing, and had been avoiding every hard choice for two weeks. The winger was the first thing I’d seen all night that I could actually do something about. Even if it was the wrong thing.

I skated straight at him. Dropped my gloves.

“Come on,” I said.

He looked confused. “What?”

I shoved him.

The whistles blew. His teammates moved in. I heard André’s voice somewhere behind me. “Nico, don’t⁠—”

Too late.

I threw a punch. He threw one back. We went down, both swinging, the refs trying to get between us. When they finally pulled us apart, I was breathing hard and my knuckles were throbbing. The crowd was booing or cheering; I couldn’t tell.

“Game misconduct,” the ref said. “You’re done.”

“For what?”

“Instigator in the final five. You know the rule.” He pointed toward the tunnel. “Get off the ice.”

I looked at the clock. Three minutes and forty-two seconds left.

I’d just gotten myself ejected from a game we were already losing, for a fight I’d started for no reason except that I’d run out of patience, for all of it, and because he’d been right there.

I skated to the tunnel without looking at the bench. Went straight to the locker room and sat there alone while the game finished. Heard the final buzzer. Heard the team come back in, quiet and pissed off.

Final score: 5–1.

I was pulling my jersey over my head when Coach appeared in the doorway. “Briggs. My office.”

He barely waited for the door to close.

“That was embarrassing. For you, for this team, for everyone in that building.” He stepped closer. “Instigating a fight in the final five when we’re down by three—you know that’s a game misconduct. And now you’re looking at a suspension from the league.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” His voice rose. “Because I’ve been watching you for two weeks. Utah. St. Louis. Today. Each one worse than the last. You’re not having a bad stretch, Briggs. You’re unraveling.” He held my gaze. “Go home. Take tomorrow off. I don’t want to see you until Wednesday practice. And if the league gives you games, that’s on you.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“And Briggs.” He stopped me at the door. “Figure out what the hell is going on with you. Not just the hockey. All of it. Because this—” He shook his head. “This isn’t who you are. And I need you to remember that before you throw away everything you’ve worked for.”