Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 121764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
But today, the rink was deadly quiet.
All we could hear were blades skidding across the ice and pucks hitting the net or the bar. Our DJ even seemed to play the music softer, like he was afraid blasting rap music too loudly would instigate a fight.
For the first part of practice, Vince stayed away from me, and I did the same. But somewhere around the thirty-minute mark, he shoulder-checked me into the boards.
I hadn’t expected the hit, and I slammed into the glass, staying there a long moment to force a calming breath. That little move alone told me how much all of this was affecting him, because if coach would have seen that shit, his ass would have been toast.
I went right back to skating and ignoring him.
Until the fucker did it again.
“That’s enough, Tanny Boy,” Will warned from the goal, but Vince didn’t so much as acknowledge him.
And five minutes later, as he was skating in the opposite direction I was, he slung his stick out lightning-fast and tripped me.
I hit the ice hard, breath knocked out of me the instant my chest made contact, and I didn’t miss the ohh that came from my teammates when I did. I hadn’t been skating at full speed. If I had, I knew Vince wouldn’t have tripped me — no matter how pissed he was. He wouldn’t want to put me at risk of getting truly injured, of putting our team out of a defenseman.
No, he’d known I’d be alright, but he wanted to make a point.
And now, my jaw was set with the determination to do the same.
I tried to calm myself down, tried to find that breath — but it was no use. I popped up off the ice and skated fast and furious across the rink to where he was watching me.
“You wanna do this now?” I asked. “Let’s fucking go.”
I ripped the Velcro from around my wrists and then slung my gloves off just as I reached him, and Vince dropped his stick, his eyes hard on mine as he got rid of his own gloves. I didn’t stop or slow down, didn’t wait for him to be ready. I plowed straight into him and landed the first punch right to his jaw.
It was madness after that.
Our teammates screamed for us to stop, several of them trying to break us up as fists flew. Every time they’d tear one of us off the other, we’d break free and go again.
I was distantly aware of the punches he landed, of how my lip split and I tasted blood — but it wasn’t enough to make either of us stop. We fought like it was game seven of the Stanley Cup playoffs, and the other had gotten a cheap shot on one of our teammates.
Daddy P had the most successful attempt at putting an end to it, standing between us with his hands hard on our chests. But Vince swiped his arm out of the way and shoved him hard, clearing the space long enough to connect his fist to my ear.
I hissed as the pain struck, my head ringing, and then I attacked, taking Vince to the ice in a tackle that would have earned me some attention from the NFL and pinning him there as I sat up and raised my fist.
A whistle blew, loud and long and right in my ear, making me wince and giving Vince just enough time to kick free. Then, all of our teammates stepped in, peeling us apart and holding us back from one another.
And in the middle of it all was Coach McCabe.
It didn’t matter that he wasn’t much older than I was. Coach commanded respect — he always had. He was severe and intentional in everything he did, and he had a way of making me feel like a child when he wasn’t happy.
Right now, he was fucking murderous, his chest heaving as he looked at me, then Vince, and back again.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said, his jaw tight. Then, he grabbed us both by the neck like we were little boys, and he steered us toward the bench.
He kept his grip firm even when we were off the ice and walking through the tunnel, and he didn’t stop when we hit the locker room. Instead, he walked us into the back hall and threw us into a dark conference room where we typically met to watch video.
Coach flicked on the lights, pointed at the space between us, and said, “Figure it out.”
Then, he left, slamming the door so hard behind him that I swore the entire arena shook.
Vince and I were both breathing heavy in the otherwise silent room, each of us wiping our faces and staring at the blood on our hands when we did. I flopped down in one of the chairs, and Vince leaned against the wall, folding his arms over his chest.