by Elle Kennedy
“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 al
l 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.”
Holy shit. Nate’s out, too? They’re our best players!
“On their side, we have Jonah Hemley getting ejected. Which is no big loss to them.” Dad sneers. “The kid was filling in for Coby Chilton, who might’ve pulled a hammy. Except he didn’t pull a damn hammy, and now the power line is back in business.”
My God. This is a travesty. Panic weakens my muscles, because…we might actually lose now.
My father doesn’t vocalize my fear, but I know he’s thinking it, too. And he sounds enraged as he addresses his players. “What the hell went on down there?”
There’s a long, fearful silence. Fitz is the one who finds the balls to speak up. “From what I gathered, Hunter slept with Hemley’s girlfriend. Unknowingly,” Fitz adds.
“Is this a fucking joke? And if you’re going to screw one of their girlfriends, it couldn’t have been Connelly’s?” Dad growls. “At least then we wouldn’t have to worry about him.”
Even though I’m upset for my team, I have to swallow a wave of laughter—because I don’t think Dad would be endorsing anyone having sex with Connelly’s girlfriend if he knew it was me.
Not that I’m Jake’s girlfriend, but I am the girl in his life, and—no, I can’t think about this right now. We’re in crisis mode.
“Jesus, Rhodes. What were you thinking!” Dad is clearly livid at his captain.
I’m not too thrilled with him, either. What happened to being the better man? Nate was so adamant about taking the high road after the whipped-cream incident, ordering Wilkes not to retaliate. And now he goes and loses his cool on the ice? Retaliating against Hemley for the attack on Hunter? It’s completely unlike him.
Nate’s tone tells me that he’s as angry and disgusted with himself as my father is. “I snapped,” he says shamefully. “That asshole broke Hunter’s wrist, Coach. And then he had the balls to say Hunter deserved it. It was the most sickening thing I’d heard, and…I snapped,” he repeats. “I’m sorry, Coach.”
“I hear you, kid. But an apology ain’t gonna put you back in this game.”
AKA, we’re utterly screwed.
I edge backward and leave the locker room. “Doesn’t sound good in there,” the security man says sympathetically.
“It’s not.”
I hurry back to our seats, where I file a report with Summer and the others. “Looks like Hunter is out, and so is Nate.”
Summer gasps
So does Rupi, who as usual is dressed like a walking J. Crew ad. Or a super-prissy American Girl doll. I wonder how many girlie, collared dresses she actually owns. Thousands, probably.
“This is a disaster!” Summer moans.
“Yup,” I say morosely, and we’re not wrong.
When the second period gets underway, you can see the difference in Briar’s game almost immediately. It’s like watching an Olympic sprinter crush the first heat of the 100-meter dash, only to come out for the next heat to find that there are spikes on the track. Without Nate, the captain of the team, and Hunter, our best forward, we’re struggling right out of the gate. Fitz and Hollis can’t carry the entire team. Our younger players aren’t fully developed yet, and the best ones, Matt Anderson and Jesse Wilkes, are physically incapable of keeping up with Connelly.
My eyes track Jake as he scores early in the second. It’s a beautiful shot, a work of art. Now Harvard is leading 2–1. And two minutes before the end of the period, Weston gives Harvard a power play by drawing a penalty from Fitz, who rarely visits the box.
Summer drops her face in her manicured hands. “Omigod, this is awful.” She finally glances up, seeking out her boyfriend. “His head looks like it’s about to explode.”
Sure enough, Fitz is stewing and simmering in the penalty box. Red-faced and clenching his jaw so tight, the muscles there are actually quivering.
Harvard takes advantage of the penalty Weston the asshole provoked. And just because I played Scrabble with the guy and he helped me out with Eric doesn’t make him any less of the enemy right now. Right now I loathe him. Maybe a couple days from now we can play Scrabble again, but right now I want him erased from the face of the planet.
Unfortunately, Briar is shorthanded, and Weston is the one who ends up scoring the power-play goal. Then Fitz is back and we’re able to breathe easy again.
Weston tries the same thing on Hollis during his next shift, but Hollis doesn’t fall for it, bless his puppy-dog heart. Instead, the refs catch Weston’s dirty hit and he takes a two-minute minor, and we’re all on our feet screaming ourselves hoarse when Briar scores.
3-2 now.
The second period is over. “You can do it,” I whisper to the boys as they disappear in the chute toward the locker rooms. Hopefully my dad gives them a Miracle-worthy speech and we can come back, tie it up early in the third, and then score again and win the damn game.
“We still have a chance, right?” Summer’s eyes glimmer with hope.
“Of course we do. We got this,” I say firmly.
We’re on our feet again when the third period starts. It’s scoreless for almost six minutes, until, in the middle of a shoving battle in Harvard’s zone, Jesse Wilkes gets a shot off that careens right between Johansson’s legs. It’s a total fluke, but I’ll take it. The Briar fans go insane as the scoreboard switches to 3–3.
I can’t believe everyone is still maintaining the same level of speed that kicked off the game. They must be exhausted after two grueling periods. But both teams are still playing like the entire season is on the line. Because it is.
I’m mesmerized as I watch Jake do what he does best. He’s impossibly fast and I can’t help imagining him in Edmonton next year. He’s going to have a hell of a season if he plays even half as well as he’s playing tonight.
“He’s so good," Summer says grudgingly, as Jake literally dekes out three of our boys to charge the net.
He takes a shot. Luckily he misses, and I’m ashamed to say I experience a spark of disappointment when Corsen thwarts Jake’s attempt.
Oh God. Where do my loyalties lie? I want Briar to win. I truly do. And I hate what that Harvard player did to Hunter and Nate.
But I also want Jake to succeed. He’s magnificent.
We’re still tied, and the clock is winding down. The possibility of overtime worries me. I don’t know if we have enough juice left to hold them off. Especially Corsen. He’s good in the net, but he’s not the best.
Johansson, on the other hand, I’d definitely rank in the top three of college goalies. He stops every shot like a pro. He didn’t enter the NHL draft when he became eligible, but I hope he tries to sign with someone after college. He’s too good not to.
“Come on, guys!” Summer screams. “Let’s do this!” Her shouted encouragement is drowned out by the shouts of everyone around us.
My ears are going to be ringing hardcore after this game, but it’s worth it. There’s nothing better than live hockey. The excitement in the air is contagious. Addictive. I want to be able to do this for a living, not as a player, but a participant. I want to cheer for these athletes, talk to them while they’re still hopped up on whatever it is that makes them come alive on the ice. Adrenaline, talent, pride. I want to be part of that, in whatever capacity I can.
Three minutes left, and the score remains 3-3.
Jake’s line is back. Brooks is up to his usual tricks, except no one’s falling for them anymore. I think it’s pissing him off, judging by the hard set of his shoulders. Good. He deserves it. It won’t be dirty tricks that win Harvard this game. It’ll have to be skill. Unfortunately, they’re drowning in skilled players
There’s exactly two minutes and forty-six seconds left when Jake gets a breakaway. My heart is torn, sinking when he gets the puck, and yet soaring when he nears our net. He winds up his arm to take a shot, and it’s another work of art. A gorgeous bullet. When the announc
ers shout, “GOALLLLLL!” my heart is somehow caught in both a tailspin and a steep climb. I’m surprised I don’t vomit from the nauseating sensation.
Harvard is in the lead now, and we’ve only got two and a half minutes to try to tie it up again. The Briar fans in the arena are screaming. The clock keeps ticking.
Two minutes left.
A minute and a half.
Briar scrambles. Fitz gets a shot on net, and a collective groan rocks half the stands when Johansson stops it. The goalie holds on, and the whistle blows.
I cup my mouth with both hands. “Come on, boys!” I shout as they line up for the faceoff. They have one minute and fifteen seconds to make something happen.
But Coach Pedersen is no fool. He puts his best guys on the ice for the last minute, treating it like a penalty kill. It’s the A-Team: Will Bray and Dmitry Petrov on defense; Connelly, Weston, and Chilton filling the forward slots. And they’re so fucking solid. The puck remains in their possession the entire time. Harvard is on the attack and Corsen is like a ninja, fending off shot after shot after shot. And although it helps us, this is not what we need to be doing. We shouldn’t be stopping bullets, we should be unleashing our own.
Ten seconds to go. Disappointment forms in my belly. I peer toward the Briar bench, seeking out my dad. His face is completely expressionless, but his jaw holds a lot of tension. He knows what’s about to happen.
BUZZZZZ!
The third period is over.
Briar loses.
Harvard wins.
“I can’t believe this.” Summer tucks a strand of golden hair behind her ear as she and I stand in one corner of the lobby. “I feel so bad for Fitzy.”
“Me too. And for the rest of the guys.”
“Well, of course. Them, too.” She rests her head against my shoulder, her glum gaze fixed on the entry to the corridor. We’re waiting for the players to come out, and we’re not the only ones. Fans and puck bunnies alike loiter in the cavernous space, ready to offer support and comfort to both the winners and the losers. At least most of the Briar guys will get laid without much effort tonight.