The whistle blows. I didn’t see what happened, but I turn to find Hollis shouting something at Weston.
It’s a high-sticking call, and Hollis is hauled into the penalty box. Brooks and I exchange a look. He did his job. Now it’s time to do mine.
Our line stays out for the penalty kill, but we don’t need much time. Briar is a man down, and although they manage to ice it right off the faceoff, the moment we get the puck back? Stick a fork in them cuz they’re done. I deke out Davenport and release a shot that even Corsen and his new glove skills can’t stop. The lamp lights and relief ripples through me.
The score is tied.
“Good job,” Coach says when I swing over the wall.
I pop out my mouth guard, a piece of equipment that isn’t mandatory, but I value my teeth, thank you very much. My breathing is labored, chest sucking in and out, as I watch my teammates speed by. That was exhausting. My shift lasted more than three minutes, which is unheard of.
“Get your shit together,” I hear Heath growling to Jonah.
I glance down the bench, frowning deeply. “We got a problem?” I call to the younger guys.
“Nah, it’s all good,” Heath says.
I’m not convinced. Jonah’s angry gaze is glued to the action in front of us, but I can’t quite pinpoint where his anger stems from. Maybe he took a dirty hit and is pissed at the player who got away with it.
Dmitry’s line manages to hold Briar off. When McCarthy flops down beside me, I pound his shoulder with my glove. “Good hustle,” I bark.
“Thanks.” He blushes at the compliment, and I know he’s trying hard not to grin. I don’t throw out praise haphazardly, so my teammates know that when I praise them, I really mean it.
His obvious happiness brings a rush of guilt to my throat. Brooks got in my head the other night about “doing the right thing” with McCarthy. I’d already made the decision to tell him that I’m seeing Brenna, but I’m waiting until after the game. I didn’t want to take the chance that the news might distract him from the finals.
Coach changes up the lines again. Now it’s me and Brooks, and Coby’s been swapped out for Jonah, a right-winger who’s excellent at taking advantage of rebounds. There’s almost an immediate offsides call. At the whistle, I skate over and get in position.
The faceoff is a disaster from the word go. The bullshit starts, but this time it’s not courtesy of Weston. It’s from Jonah.
“Davenport,” he barks.
The Briar player spares him a glance before focusing on the ref.
“I’m talking to you, asshole. Stop pretending you can’t hear me.”
“Not pretending anything,” Davenport snaps back. “I just don’t give a shit about what you’re saying.”
The puck drops. I secure it, but Jonah is still distracted from the exchange and he misses the pass I flick his way. Davenport intercepts and takes off on a breakaway. We chase after him, but it’s Johansson who saves us from that potentially costly mistake. He stops the shot and passes the puck off to Brooks.
“Unacceptable,” I hiss at Jonah as I skate by. That kind of screw-up isn’t typical of Jonah Hemley. “Keep your head in the game.”
I don’t think he hears me. Or maybe he doesn’t care. When he and Davenport are tangled up against the boards during our next shift, Jonah starts up again. “Thursday night,” he’s growling. “Where were you?”
“Fuck. Off.” Davenport elbows Jonah hard and wins the battle for the puck.
I hit Davenport with a crosscheck and steal the puck, but once again Jonah is too caught up in whatever the hell this is. He doesn’t drive forward like he’s supposed to, and we’re offsides again. The whistle blows.
I don’t know what’s happening, and I don’t fucking like it.
The next faceoff is to the left of our net. As we line up, Jonah’s interrogation resumes. “Thursday night, asshole,” he spits out. “You were at the Brew Factory.”
“So what?” Davenport sounds annoyed.
“So you’re not denying it!”
“Why would I deny it? I was at the bar. Now shut the hell up.”
“The redhead you left with—you remember her?” Jonah demands.
My stomach drops, and I pray that the puck drops, too—now—because I’ve figured out where this is going, and it needs to be squashed. Now.
“Who? Violet? What do you care who I stick my dick in?”
“That was my girlfriend!”
As Jonah heaves himself forward, he knocks over the referee, who goes sprawling on the ice in a tangle of limbs.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!
“Hemley!” I thunder, but Jonah’s not listening.
He tackles Hunter Davenport, and his fists start flying. When Jonah’s gloves come off, anger sizzles up my spine, because dammit, this is cause for ejection. I try to haul him off our opponent, but he’s strong. He screams at Davenport for sleeping with Vi, while whistles blast all around us.
Davenport sounds genuinely confused. “She didn’t tell me she had a boyfriend! Jesus! Get off me!” He’s not even fighting back.
“I don’t believe you!” Jonah’s fist slams down. The whistles keep blowing.
Blood pours from the corner of Davenport’s mouth. He still has his gloves on, and he hasn’t thrown a single punch. If anyone gets kicked out of this game, it’ll be my guy and not Davenport.
I once against attempt to calm Jonah. Nate Rhodes, my rival captain, skates over and tries to give me a hand. Together, we succeed in yanking Jonah to his feet. He’s still beyond pissed. “He fucked my girlfriend!” Jonah shouts.
Another whistle blows. It’s chaos. Davenport manages to get up, but my teammate escapes the hold I have on him and lunges at the Briar player again, slamming him into the boards. Once again they fall to the ice.
Only this time, it’s accompanied by a loud grunt of pain.
I pull Jonah up again, but the agonized sound hadn’t come from him.
Davenport’s helmet comes off. He drops his gloves and cradles one wrist, pressing it against his chest. And he’s swearing up a blue streak, the pain in his eyes unmistakable. “You broke my wrist,” he snarls. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You fucking deserve it,” Jonah spits out, and suddenly there’s a blur of motion and Nate Rhodes lunges and drives his fist into Jonah’s jaw.
Other players spill onto the ice, and chaos becomes catastrophe. The whistles keep blowing and blowing as the refs try to regain control. But the control train left the station a long time ago.
30
Brenna
The second the buzzer goes off to signal the end of the first period, I jump out of my seat. So does Summer, but I rest my hand on her shoulder. “They’re not going to let you in.”
“How do you know?” she demands.
“Because I know my father. Hell, he might not even let me in. But if anyone has the chance, it will be me. I promise I’ll text you the second I know something.”
“Okay.” Summer looks shell-shocked, and the expression isn’t unique to her. Everyone around us is still beyond stunned.
Nobody knows what the hell happened down there, except that the game turned into some sort of bloodsport. Hunter left before the period ended, cradling his arm. So did Nate and one Harvard player whose name and jersey number I didn’t catch.
For the rest of the first period, we were missing two of our best players, but we somehow managed to hold Harvard off until the buzzer. There are two periods left and I have no idea what’s going on. Neither the referees nor the announcers up in the media booth revealed why those players left. In college hockey, fighting is not allowed. It can get you ejected. Except, Hunter didn’t start the fight, nor did he fight back. And I have no clue why Nate got involved. He’s usually more levelheaded than that.
I hurry out of the rink in search of answers. Other people are also leaving, so I elbow my way through the crowd as I walk toward the locker rooms. Dad always gives me a pass, just in case. It doesn’t guarantee entrance into the actual locker room, but it means I can access any off-limits areas. I flash my pass to a security guard and turn down another corridor.
Another guard stands near the visiting team’s locker room. “Hey,” I greet him, holding up my lanyard. “I’m Coach Jensen’s daughter and the team manager.” The second part is a lie, but I’m hoping it aids my case.
It does. The man quickly steps aside.
I open the door in time to hear my father’s voice. It sounds deadly as fuck. “What the hell did you have to go and do that for, Rhodes?”
I don’t hear Nate’s mumbled response.
I slowly creep toward where the players are gathered. Nobody notices me. Why would they? I’m hidden in a sea of big bodies that all tower over me.
“Well, Davenport’s out. He’s getting x-rays, but the team doc says she doesn’t need the scans to tell her the wrist is broken.”
My stomach drops. Dad doesn’t sound at all happy, and I don’t blame him. Hunter is out of the game.
“And Rhodes, you’ve been ejected for your part in the scrum.”