I swallow hard and refocus on practice. “Let’s get a scrimmage going. Black and white jerseys, you’re team one! Green and gold, team two!”
Henneman glides toward the bench, shoulders hunched like he wants to disappear. Our eyes meet for a split second and he stiffens, then looks away.
Goddammit.
Zach glides in beside me. “He’s worse today.”
“Don’t fuck with him.”
His stick taps mine once. “What happened?”
I turn back to the team without answering my friend. “Line up. And you all better play like your fucking lives depend on it!”
I skate to the face-off circle. Better to play than to go further into my head. I win possession and send the puck back to one of our new defensemen. He passes cross ice to the winger, who feeds back to me. I take a slapshot, but Viktor saves it.
The opposing team moves like they're half-asleep. “You're playing like it's fucking Sunday skate. Move your asses.”
We reset for another face-off. Winning the puck again, I send it into the offensive zone. Beating out the defense, I wrap around the net, and Viktor doesn’t even try to stop me.
He flings his water bottle at the nearest defenseman’s skates. “You useless shitheads planning to coveranyonetoday, or should I send out a fucking invitation?”
I smirk as I pull up beside him. “Thought you would enjoy an opportunity to show off.”
“Well, yeah.” He looks over to the bench. “Why’s your husband staring off into space?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
Lie.
My fingers tighten on the shaft of my stick. I skate toward the bench, then hop over the boards just as Henneman gets onto the ice. But instead of watching the whole team, my attention is on him. He’s physically playing hard, but his head isn’t in it.
Fifteen minutes in, and my team is up by three. Everyone starts getting chippy. Some freshmen are refusing to get on the ice—time for them to enter the transfer portal.
Zach jerks his chin toward the defensive zone. “He better pick his head up.”
Henneman’s tangled up with a sophomore winger. Jenkins is solid, physical, and the kind of player who thinks hitting hard makes up for average skill.
The puck comes loose along the boards. Henneman skates toward it, head down for just a second too long. Jenkins drives him headfirst into the boards.
I’m on the ice, skating full speed at the laughing sophomore. Just as he turns his head, my fist connects with the cage of his helmet. Then I swing again.
And again.
“You dumb motherfucker!”
He recovers and throws a haymaker. But I duck it, then grab him, and using my hip as leverage, drop him.
“Get the fuck off my ice.”
“Fuck you, asshole.” He gets up and skates away, giving me the finger as he hops off the ice.
Everyone stares, including Henneman.
My eyes narrow at the group. “Line up. One more round.”
I make the mistake of looking at Viktor, that annoying lopsided smirk spreading across his face. With a huff, I skate to the bench, shaking my hand. There was absolutely no fucking need for Jenkins to be boarding teammates during practice. Especially those who have helped us win championships and those who scored winning goals.
The dumb shit sophomore needs his face rearranged more than what I managed to do.
