My side throbbed. My knuckles were already starting to swell. The adrenaline faded, leaving behind the familiar ache that reminded me I'd been doing this for twelve years and my body was starting to keep score.
Across the ice, Kellner sat in his own penalty box, still grinning. Blood had dried at the corner of his mouth.
Five minutes felt like twenty.
When the buzzer finally sounded, I pushed out of the box and back onto the ice. Pickle was up, skating gingerly but moving. He caught my eye again, nodding once.
Worth it.
The locker room after a win always smelled the same: sweat, victory, and whatever industrial cleaner they used on the floors. Someone's phone was blasting music—something with too much bass and not enough melody. Pickle was holding court in the corner, reenacting his fall with increasingly dramatic gestures.
My ribs complained. I prodded the bruise carefully—tender, but nothing broken. One more reminder that thirty wasn't far off, and my body had opinions about how I spent my time.
"You good?" Evan stepped up beside me.
"Fine."
"Your ribs say otherwise."
"My ribs are drama queens."
"Your side is bruised." He handed me an ice pack without asking. "Twenty minutes. Don't argue."
I took the ice pack. Arguing with Evan about injuries was like arguing with a spreadsheet about math—technically possible, but pointless.
Coach emerged from his office. "Good game. Sloppy in the second period, but you held together. Hawkins—nice work protecting Piatkowski. But if you take another stupid penalty this week, you're benched."
"Yes, Coach."
"I mean it. You're not twenty-two anymore. Use your brain before your fists."
"Yes, Coach."
He grunted and disappeared back into his office. My phone buzzed in my jacket pocket. I fished it out, still holding the ice pack to my ribs.
Rhett:Good game. Nice right hook
Hog:You were watching?
Rhett:Had the game on at the rink during practice. Kids went nuts when you dropped gloves.
Rhett:Mika wants your autograph. Says you're braver than Batman.
I stared at the phone, grinning like an idiot. Then, suddenly, my smile faded.
He'd watched me fight. Watched me punch someone hard enough to draw blood. Watched the enforcer do what enforcers do—ugly, brutal, necessary. And his first text was about the kids watching too.
What had they seen? What had he seen?
"Is that flannel guy?" Jake leaned over, shamelessly reading over my shoulder. "IT IS. Look at your face. You're blushing."
"I'm not—"
Jake grabbed my phone before I could stop him. "Let me see what—oh my god, he called you brave. That's adorable. I'm going to vomit."
"Give me my phone!"
"In a second." Jake was typing something. "There. Sent."
