The game restarts. I force myself to watch every move they make, hunting for weakness. My hands pinch with pain from how hard I’m gripping my stick. It’s killing me to be locked up for so long.
This is Violet’s fault.
Would I have gone as crazy as I did if she hadn’t put the thought into my head?
No. I’m always calm, cool, collected. I’m the skater coaches dream of having on their roster. I don’t start fights, but sometimes I finish them.
Tonight, I threw the first punch.
The refs wouldn’t throw me out of the game for that. Fighting is technically allowed. It’s a brutal sport, after all. No, this is Roake’s decision.
I grumble to myself, leaning forward and bracing my elbows on my knees.
Somehow, we manage to hold them off. No one scores.
When the man opens the door for me, I burst out onto the ice and charge forward. Coach yells my name, and I ignore him. He’s going to give me shit for this. I catch a glimpse of my replacement sitting on the wall, waiting for me to get over there.
Knox skates up beside me. “You good?”
“Peachy.”
“You’re going to get your ass reamed.”
I grunt. Worth it if we win.
The puck comes back up to us, a shot long by Steele. I cradle it and shoot forward, dodging around an incoming Knight player. It’s not the same jackass who tripped me—I think he might be out, too, to tend to his face. I pass to Knox, who keeps it for a moment before sending it right back to me.
Erik, on the other side of the rink, races toward the goal.
I clench my teeth and snap the puck to him.
He fakes a shot, making the goalie react, but it flies back to me instead. I flip the puck above the goalie’s outstretched glove, and it soars into the net.
Tied game.
I clap Erik on the shoulder. He does the same to me, his lips widening into a grin behind his mouth guard.
“DEVEREUX,” Coach screams.
I wince. Erik is quiet, which is unusual. He always has a half-assed comment when one of us gets yelled at. I skate to the wall and grind to a stop before I crash into it.
Coach grabs the front of my jersey. “You think this is funny?”
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
“You think you can just make your own decisions?”
Um… well, it worked out in our favor. Not that there’s a chance in hell I’d say that out loud. I know Coach is good for an ass beating if we deserve it. Or a verbal lashing—each are unpleasant, in my experience.
“Sit,” Coach orders. “Don’t move a fucking muscle the rest of the game. If you get up, if you so much as shift, you’re off the team.”
Chills sweep down my spine.
He’s not messing around.
I hop over the wall and give him a wide berth. I find a seat on the back row, against a wall, and sit heavily. I pull my helmet off and set it beside me. Then gloves, which didn’t do shit for my knuckles. I lean my stick against the wall.
And then I watch my team fight like hell to win.