40
TUCK
T his Ryan Wentz douchebag has been up my ass all fucking game.
I don’t know what the refs are looking at. This guy’s slamming me with late hits, trying to trip up my skates, playing dirty as hell.
When he high sticks me to no reaction from the officials, Coach Torres, who’s usually stoic during a game, is shouting bloody murder at the negligent refs.
I hop onto the bench for a shift change. Kiran takes my place, and I drop down next to Jamie.
“The fuck’s that guy’s problem?” the freshman asks.
I shake my head, trying not to let anger both at the dirty player and shitty refs bite deeper into me. Getting fouled is bad enough, I don’t want it to affect my focus, too. I just need to concentrate on what I need to do out there.
“Beats me,” I say. I watch Went do the same thing I just did, switching out with a teammate for some rest on the bench.
Guess he only wants to be in the game when he can fuck with me.
The players on the bench rise to our feet as Kiran, with the freshest legs on the ice right now, blazes past the Withermore Falcons defenders and scores a goal, putting us in the lead 2-1.
Minutes later, though, the Falcons get us back. Coach signals for all the first line players to head back onto the ice. Sure enough, moments after my blades connect with the smooth surface of the rink, Ryan Wentz is hopping back out, too.
The play is intense and contentious, both teams eager to step out of the current tie with the one-goal advantage. I end up in a battle for the puck with Wentz behind the Falcons’ net. I’m zeroed in on our struggle over the puck, when he says something that slices through my concentration.
“You enjoying my sloppy seconds, McCoy?”
His words stab into my chest. Acid rises in my throat. It’s enough to shatter my concentration like a glass crashing onto a hardwood floor. All it takes is a split second of me losing focus for him to take advantage and win possession of the puck.
I shouldn’t be concentrating on anything but getting the puck back as I pump my legs to catch up to him while he skates towards our goal. But my head is spinning with thoughts.
Ryan Wentz. Ryan Wentz. Have I overheard the name Ryan at any point, from Olivia, or even from Summer or Hudson?
I know Olivia used to date a hockey player. Anger clogs my throat as the obvious thought grips me.
Is this the fucking piece of shit who hurt Olivia? The guy who had the smartest, most talented, sweetest, most beautiful girl in the damn world and taught her to be afraid of her own feelings?
And did that heap of garbage just fucking dare to call her sloppy seconds ?
Rage boils in my blood.
But maybe that’s not the case. All kinds of trash talk goes down in hockey. Sometimes people say random shit, hoping that by chance they hit a nerve that throws their opponents off their game.
Well, if that’s what Wentz was doing, I can’t deny that he’s succeeded.
I try my best to push thoughts of slamming my fist into Ryan Wentz’s face until his nose is above his eyes out of my head. I need to focus on this game. The Frozen Four is right around the corner, and we sure as hell don’t want another loss after last weekend.
Lane manages to win the puck back and pass it to me. Sure enough, moments later, Wentz is on me, pressing me against the dasher boards as we struggle again for the puck.
I force myself not to think about what happened last time we were in this position. Force myself to think about nothing but winning the battle for the puck and taking it home to their net.
But then he says something I can’t ignore.
“I still got Olivia’s number, you know. Might text her my hotel room number after the game. I know I got bored of her and traded up years ago, but she’s probably still good for an easy fu?—”
My fist smashes into his face before my hockey stick even hits the ice.
I see red. Literally. I always thought that was just an expression, but right now the crisp white ice looks blood red.
I’m in a frenzy, throwing jabs and hooks at Ryan as he tries to cover up. I get in a couple direct hits. The smash of my knuckles against his face is the only thing that brings any relief to the incandescent rage that’s burning all over me.
His teammates get to us before any of mine do. I can tell that I’m taking hits myself. Someone’s pulled off my helmet, and fists are crashing into my head, my cheek, my shoulders. People are tugging at me.
I don’t care.
I can’t hear anything over the pounding of my heartbeat and the loud thrumming of my blood flow in my ears.
As the first tsunami of adrenaline ebbs, sounds start to lance through my frenzy. The sharp whistles of the referees. The overwhelming roar of the crowd. The shouts of my team and the Falcons as they jostle to hold me back and pull Ryan away.
I stop swinging my arms when I realize Ryan is out of reach. I regain a measure of control over myself, but the rage doesn’t die down. If anything, it becomes sharper and more focused when I take my seat in the Sin Bin.
I don’t even watch the game. All I can think of are his words. What he said about Olivia. The scummy look in his eyes. The gleeful, malicious tilt on his lips.
I hope I fucking split those lips.
Part of me wants to take a look at him while he’s sitting on his team’s bench across from me. See if I did any real damage. But another part of me knows that if I get him in my sights right now, I might not be able to resist hopping over this barricade to get more shots in.
With a major penalty, I’m out for the rest of the game. We end up losing 2-3.
I should feel bad. I let my team down and got myself locked in the penalty box when they needed me on the ice.
But I can’t feel bad. If I could do it all over again, I’d still throw every single punch. The only thing I’d change is I’d want to make them more accurate. I wish I’d gotten a straight jab right on his nose and made it crooked for the rest of his miserable life.
“What the hell was that all about?” Lane asks me as I’m tugging off my jersey in the locker room.
My nose scrunches as Wentz’s words blare in my memory. “He said something about Olivia. Something he shouldn’t have fucking said.”
“Olivia?” Hudson steps towards me, his tone laced with protectiveness. “How does he know Olivia?”
I glance at him, brow low, not even able to summon the words to my lips.
“Oh, shit,” realization dawns in Hudson’s eyes. “Is he …?”
“Her ex,” I spit out, hating the taste of that word on my lips. “The one who treated her like shit. And he …” I don’t finish my sentence. My jaw clenches in anger. But I force myself to repeat what Wentz said to me out there.
Sebastian clasps my shoulder. “Then I only wish I threw a couple punches myself. Fuck the loss tonight. We’re in the playoffs anyway. That asshole deserved it.”
All my teammates murmur in agreement. Even though I’m still simmering with anger, their support, and the fact that they care about Olivia, is like a soothing lotion over a sunburn.
“Oh, what the fuck,” Rhys growls, looking at his phone.
“What?” Lane asks.
Rhys shakes his head with disgust as we gather around to look at his screen.
“Someone from Brumehill sent me this Tweet,” he says.
It’s a Tweet from Withermore’s center forward. It’s a laughing emoji followed by the message, Our boy Ryan had some words of truth for McCoy that he didn’t wanna hear .
It’s already been liked and re-tweeted by everyone on the Withermore team.
Rage bubbles so high inside me that it almost spills over. I coil the muscle of my right arm, clenching it close to me, trying to overcome my instinct to ball my hand into a fist and slam it into the wall.
“These fuckers are getting it tomorrow,” Rhys says.
Coach storms into the locker room clearly ready to rip me a new asshole for costing us the game. But when the guys speak up for me and explain what happened, including showing him that Tweet, he changes his tune.
“I’d go talk to their coach about the behavior of his players,” Coach Torres says. “But Mike Galvin was a dirty player himself in his day. I’m sure he approves of this shit if he thinks it’ll give them a psychological edge.”
The guys continue to murmur in disgust and anger at the Withermore team.
“One thing, boys,” Coach says. “I get that you don’t want them to get away with this. And hey, this is hockey after all, not soccer. I came up playing this game and I’ve thrown some left and rights in my time. Take my advice—get it out of your system early, and then wipe the floor with them.”
We’re throwing smirks at each other while Coach walks out of the locker room. I’m pretty sure we all got his message loud and clear.
Looks like tomorrow’s game is starting with a good old fashioned line brawl. And I know just which Withermore piece of shit I’m lining up with to exchange blows.