Page 135 of Rookie Attraction

There are murmurs of “Yes, Coach.”

“What the fuck was that?” Range shouts and holds up his hands. “I said, are you ready!?”

“Yes, Coach!” We shout together.

Berg and Makela tap my shoulder, and I try to settle, but it’s no use. As we head down the chute and onto the ice, the Rush’s fans are roaring so loud that the sound vibrates through my bones. This game is going to be a battle, no question. Every time I glance across the ice, I catch familiar faces—guys I used to call teammates, friends. Most of them still don’t meet my eyes. The ones who do look like they want to eviscerate me. My stomach twists painfully and I break out in a cold sweat.

Fuck them. I’m scared but more than determined to do this.

The first period starts, oddly enough, without incident. And without either side scoring.

The puck moves fast, the hits are clean, and for a while it feels like maybe the bad blood between us will stay buried under the ice. But Chicago falters near the end of the period, and Berg breaks our stalemate. He finds the back of the net twice in five minutes, and the New York crowd goes nuts. Our bench surges with energy, sticks banging against the boards.

When the period ends, I feel like so far, so good. We’re ahead, and we’re pumped.

In the second period, however, a weird unease tightens my gut.

We’ve got two goals on Chicago and no surprise, they’re frustrated. The Bandits hit back harder, their chirps louder, their play as aggressive as it can get. I don’t like it, and I can sense it coming before it happens. The turnaround in their focus.

When a shift change is called, Finn and I are back in it. I play the most intense hockey of my life, determined to prove to these guys that they lost out. I notice the Bandits’ most aggressive enforcer, my former “friend” Eric Donaldson, stops chasing the puck and starts chasing players. His first aim is Makela, but our forward’s too fast and dekes around him.

What the fuck? Why Makela?

I’m the one they hate.

Donaldson and his teammates don’t let up, barreling down the ice like their asses are on fire.

And there, in the middle of a rush, it happens.

Even though Finn doesn’t have the puck, Donaldson’s gunning for him and everyone’s attention is elsewhere. I take off, but it happens so fast, and I’m too late. I can’t protect my partner.

Without pause, Donaldson rams Finn, driving him sideways into the boards.

Finn!

The horrible crack of contact echoes in my ears, and I watch in horror as Finn crumples to the ice. The ref blows a whistle to stop the play.

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s all I can say because I feel like I’m choking. I race over to Finn, but there are already trainers and medics rushing out to help, checking him over. Finn replies to their questions—he’s talking, thank fuck—but I can’t hear a word. All I see his beautiful face etched in pain, his right hand clutching his left arm. I don’t get a chance to say anything before they help Finn up and off the ice.

He’s gone.

Fear turns to absolute fury. It burns through every nerve in my body as I rush toward Donaldson. Goddamn motherfucker’s grinning, he’s proud of himself. I shove him, hard as I can, and he snatches my jersey.

“You fucking prick, that was illegal!” I scream.

He shakes his head.

“Your d-man bromance is done, Kirkland! Bet the rookie will be pissed, because this is all your fault. Everyone on the Rush will turn on you,” he hisses, his voice dripping with venom. Then he shoves me back. “Didn’t you get the message the first time, you fucking queer? You shouldn’t be on the ice with us. I didn’t mean Chicago; I meant the league.”

The angry words slice through the white noise as more guys crowd around us.

“Homophobic piece of shit,” I snarl.

I don’t care who hears me. Maybe they all should. The players, the refs, the fans.

Donaldson sneers. “Shut up, bitch.”