Barbie sinks to his knees next to me during Saturday’s warm-up. He stretches out one of his legs and mumbles, “This is embarrassing.”
The tape’s reached Kovy’s song choice, which I’m guessing is Barbie’s problem. It’s some kind of country rap, heavy on the country. It’s not terrible, but definitely not Barbie’s style.
“This is Nova’s favorite song, dude,” I say flatly, crossing one leg over the other and twisting to stretch my back.
He looks at me wide-eyed, mouth guard hanging out of his wide-open mouth. I smirk, and he clamps his jaw shut, glaring. “Since when do you have jokes?”
“Dario and Diana taught me this morning,” I say, nodding up toward the stands where Dorian’s little brother and sister are arguing over a Nintendo Switch. His family surprised him by coming out to this game, and I swear seeing their reunion almost made me cry. Mr. and Mrs. Hidalgo point things out to each other in the arena, waving when they notice me and Barbie looking at them.
Barbie laughs a little. “Yeah, they’re funny kids. Little demons, but funny.”
“Hey, hey.” Dorian skates up and sits on Barbie’s other side, sticking his legs out and bending to touch his toes. “Check out the ankles on number eight.”
“Be nice, Dori,” Barbie deadpans. “We didn’t all have someone to teach us how to lace our skates growing up.”
Dorian doesn’t take the bait. “Dude’s playing D-I. He should know how to lace his goddamn skates.”
“Maybe he’s got weak ankles.”
“Maybe he just blows.”
Barbie hums, and we stretch on in silence until Cauler joins us. “This is gonna be a blowout,” he says as he takes a knee next to me. “Have you seen number eight?”
“See!” Dorian says. There’s an outburst of noise and cheering from the crowd as the women’s team files in to fill the rows right behind the bench. They’re coming off a huge win and their energy is high. I need three points tonight to catch up to Delilah.
I push up onto my hands and knees and cross one leg in front of the other for a glute stretch. Cauler clears his throat. His voice sounds a little pinched when he starts rambling about a new Amity song. Dorian and Barbie either don’t notice it or ignore it as they join in, but I give him a look over my shoulder.
He’s standing, stick across his shoulders, twisting back and forth to stretch his back. As soon as Dorian and Barbie start talking, Cauler’s eyes shift down to me. But not incidentally. Not even at my face. I am about 99.9 percent sure Jaysen Caulfield just looked at my ass. My hockey-pants-obscured ass, but still.
I sit back a little in surprise, and his eyes flick up to my face, widening when they meet mine. His mouth falls open slightly, and Coach’s whistle blows, calling us in for shots on Colie before puck drop.
We come out viciously and relentlessly the second the clock starts ticking. Dorian has one of his best games so far, blocking shots before Colie can even touch them, stripping Lakers players of the puck whenever they make the mistake of bringing it near him, throwing nasty checks and assisting on goals for me and Zero. Every time he does something impressive while I’m on the bench, I glance over my shoulder at his family.
They’re loving every second of it.
Halfway through the third period, I’ve got two goals and an assist, Cauler’s got a goal and an assist of his own, and we’re leading 7–0. And I’m having fun. Every time I score and Cauler puts a hand on top of my head and pulls me in for a hug, I feel my heart stop.
The Lakers, however, are decidedly not having fun. Their tempers rise with each passing second. Checks come later and harder, the shoving after whistles more prolonged and violent.
Coach sends our line over the boards with a few minutes left and the words, “Get James that hatty. Don’t care how you do it, just make it happen.” Cauler and Zero put the puck on my stick every chance they get, passing up clear shots in favor of handing it off to me.
I don’t need another point. I’m ahead of both Delilah and Cauler now, and the Lakers are starting to look homicidal. But my teammates want that hat trick for me badly enough, they’ll pass up points of their own to get it for me. Even Cauler. My biggest rival. So when a lane opens up, I take the shot, smooth and quick, a laser into the top-left corner of the goal.
The arena erupts, hats raining down on the ice as I turn, throwing my arms up. I’m laughing, expecting Cauler and Zero to lift me off the ice in celebration. Instead, I’m face-to-chest with a red-faced Laker blueliner named Clarkson. He takes one look at my mid-celly smile and crosschecks me hard enough, I stumble backwards, tripping over someone’s leg and collapsing in a heap on the ice.
Okay, ouch.
Whistles blow as guys clash above me. I’m sprawled out, breathless, blinking up at Cauler with his hands twisted in Clarkson’s jersey, the cages of their helmets pressed together as they hurl insults back and forth. I don’t think Cauler will throw a punch, but god, I’d love to see it. Zero helps me to my feet once a ref pulls him away from the chaos, but I don’t hear whatever he says to me. Clarkson shoves his fingers into Cauler’s cage and shakes him, pushing his head back and refusing to let go even when Cauler holds his hands up in surrender.
I throw myself at him, surprising him enough to break his hold on Cauler. I shove him back another step.
“You’re kidding, right?” Clarkson says, catching on right away. “I’m not fighting you.”
I shove him again.
“Seriously, I’m not fighting you, James. I’d get shanked by Gary Bettman.”
I get close enough that I have to look almost straight up to hold eye contact, saying nothing, just challenging him to back down from a guy damn near a foot shorter than him.
“Christ,” he huffs. “Fine! Alright!” He pushes me back out of the scramble in front of the net, the refs distracted as they try to break up four other shoving matches.
Zero says my name, a warning in his voice, but that doesn’t stop me from grabbing Clarkson by the jersey and throwing a punch. It’s a reach, but I still manage to get him in the cage and bench myself all in one moment of rage. I pull back my fist and do it again, putting all my weight behind it. I’ve never been in a fight before. I just want to break Clarkson’s teeth in, make him think twice about ever putting his hands on Cauler like that again.
He barely reacts to my punches, his helmet and my lack of fighting experience protecting him from any damage. But when he takes a swing of his own, I feel it. My helmet absorbs most of it, but it’s still enough to stun me for a second, force me to bite down hard on my mouth guard.
I feel the rumble of the crowd more than I hear it, like a bass line pounding in my chest. There’s a flash of black and white in my periphery, the refs closing in on us, but I can’t let them separate us before I make him hurt. I line up another shot to his chin and take three more to the side of my head.
My face throbs. I taste blood in my mouth. Feels like I took a baseball bat to the skull. The only thing keeping me on my feet is Clarkson’s grip on my jersey, my hands twisted into his. I give him another weak shove.
“Thanks a lot, James,” he says. His voice sounds like it’s coming through water. “Now I’m the asshole that kicked the shit out of the star.”
“Fuck you,” I spit back.
“Okay, night night, little one.” He pushes back on me, easing me down to the ice almost gently and throwing his hands up in surrender when the refs descend on him. “A little late, yeah?” he says as they lead him to the bench.
I swear to god, if everyone doesn’t stop screaming, my head’s gonna explode.
I brush off the linesman reaching to help me up and roll over to my knees, pulling off my helmet. Blood drips onto the ice, falling from just under my eyebrow. Pink drool dangles from my lips. Everything’s rolling like I’m eight shots deep. It’s not like I’m used to taking fists to the head. Doesn’t help that Clarkson’s massive.