Page 41 of Shattered On Ice

Monty’s skates carve into the ice next to me. I barely register the sound over the roaring in my ears.

“I-I fucking k-killed him,” I stutter. The words scrape out of my throat, foreign and hollow. My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely grip my stick with my thick gloves.

Monty wraps a heavy arm around my shoulders, physically breaking my trance. He directs me forcefully toward the bench. “You didn’t kill him. He’s breathing,” he assures me, his captain voice firm and steady, but I can hear the underlying tightness.

I twist, fighting Monty’s grip to look back at the medics swarming the ice. My stomach plummets. Ten years ago, he left me bleeding and broken on the ground. Now, I just put him on a stretcher. I’ve become the monster.

“He’s not moving.”

My chest heaves as we reach the bench where the rest of the team is congregated, speaking in hushed, nervous tones. Monty puts himself directly in front of me, becoming a human shield so I can't watch the carnage unfolding on the ice. “Don't look at that,” he urges.

“I fucked him up,” I mutter. My skin is tight, choking me. I don't feel like Westin Dumont, the All-Star. I feel like a bomb that just detonated. “I didn't mean to take it that far. But…I wanted to.”

Monty grips my shoulders hard, fingers digging through the pads. “This was an accident,” he says with slow, practiced conviction, trying to pull me back from the ledge. “You didn’t mean to hurt him.”

Our hot breaths pour out in visible puffs against the chilly air, mingling in the tense space between us.

“I wanted to hurt him so bad,” I choke out.

The dam breaks. Adrenaline crashes, leaving a violent wave of nausea in its wake. I drag my glove down my face, dashing away the humiliating sting of tears before they can fall. My chest heaves as my thoughts spiral wildly to the stands.

Knight is here. What did he just witness? The lover who held him so tenderly last night just broke a man’s neck for all the world to see. He’ll look at me and see a violent, out-of-control animal.

“You're not the kind of guy who wants to hurt someone, Westy,” Monty says with absolute conviction. “Even if you’re pissed as hell and hate the guy, you still wouldn't want that to happen.”

He doesn't know, my mind is screaming. He doesn't know what Benoit did to me. He doesn't know why I’d want to hurt him. He sees the golden retriever, a good guy, the peacemaker who smiles and quotes rom-coms.

“I was so mad, and look what I did,” I whisper, gesturing with my chin. Monty turns. We both watch in grim silence as the EMTs strap Benoit’s head to the backboard and lift the stretcher.

“Dumont, Montenegro, off the ice. Virtanen, Bischoff, you’re in,” Coach barks down the bench. That’s not just a line change; that’s an ejection for the last three minutes of the game. A quarantine. I fucked up. Irrevocably. And now everyone knows what kind of horrible monster I really am.

Monty pushes me onto the bench and shoves a bottle of electrolytes into my hands. I don't even see it. I stare blankly at the ice, unable to feel my fingers, unable to feel anything except the phantom ache in my jaw, and the terrifying realization of what I’m capable of.

Fifteen

Knight

Ipace across the living room, wearing a path in the rug as Indiana snores on the couch. It’s late, after two, but I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I replay Westin hitting that guy on the ice, and the absolute devastation on his face when he realized what he’d done. I’ve sent him several texts and haven't received a reply.

Rook messaged to let me know that most of the team went to The Hideout, a Hydras bar, to celebrate their win after the game, and Westin was with him. I can't imagine he wants to celebrate anything right now. He has to be dying inside, holding it all together with his All-Star mask on. I just want to slip over to his place and hold him, tell him it’s not okay right now, but he will be.

I try sitting and petting Indiana’s soft fur, but the stillness gives me more time to imagine every horrible scenario that could happen now. Westin could get suspended for that hit. He might even lose his career if it’s bad enough. I have SportsCenter muted and captions enabled on the TV, and they keep showing replays of the moment, dissecting if it was legal or if Westin should be punished, which just makes it worse. I finally have to turn it off for my own sanity. I spring up and pace again.

Lights pan across the window as a car pulls into the driveway. A few moments later, the door opens as Rook drags Westin inside. Westin is leaning heavily on Rook, arm slung limply over his shoulder, head lolling forward with his eyes closed, as Rook grips him around the waist, maneuvering them into the house.

I rush forward, grab his other arm, and help Rook get Westin onto the couch as the scent of liquor and sweat stings my nose. “What happened?” I ask, hearing the edge of panic in my voice as I try to keep it quiet.

Rook unhooks Westin’s elbow from his neck as we finally lay him back.

“He’s so fucked up. Drank way too much, even though Monty and I were intercepting his shots whenever we could. I think he’s messed up over hurting that Benoit guy,” Rook says, his voice quiet and laced with worry.

“It looked bad. Do you know if he’s okay?” I ask, meaning Benoit, but my eyes are locked on Westin.

“He went to the hospital, and teams are notoriously tight-lipped about the severity of injuries. I’m sure we’ll hear more later. It wasn’t good, though. The only thing Westy has in his favor is that it was probably a clean hit. A fucking steamroller of a hit, but clean,” Rook says, voice a quiet scratch in the dimly lit room. “I’ve never seen him do that before. I mean, he’ll check a guy when he has to, but a hit that big next to the boards isn’t like him. That’s my job.” He runs a hand through his hair and stares at his best friend like he’s looking at a stranger.

“You look wrecked. Go to bed,” I urge.

“What if he throws up and chokes on it? I don't want him to die,” Rook says, voice full of concern.