He glares at me, but then his lip quirks up to the side. Without looking down, he snakes the puck away from my stick and takes off at full speed.
“You little shit!” I yell out and take off after him, but I can’t even get close. He flings the puck right into the net.
“Show-off,” Bradley yells out, and grabs a few high fives from the rest of our struggling team.
Connor’s glee at beating me slips from his face.
If we were running a scrimmage right now, I’d use the opportunity to slam Bradley into the boards for disrespecting our captain. He’s always been one of my favorite targets during the season when our teams play one another. He’s a loudmouth and spends every game chirping out insults. The type of player that can get under everyone’s skin and demoralize a team with his mouth, not his playing ability.
“Showing up to practice prepared to play isn’t showing off,” I say to Bradley. He flips me the middle finger, but he looks sheepish as he does it. I grab another puck with my stick and pass it to Connor. He knocks it back to me and we shuffle it back and forth.
“Again?” I challenge the next time I have the puck.
He flourishes his stick. “Trying to redeem yourself?”
“Trying to work up a sweat.” I gesture with my stick handle around the rink and fake a yawn. Loudly, I say, “It’s obvious no one else here is up for a challenge.”
“Seriously, how did I end up on a team with the two biggest assholes in the league?” Bradley says.
“Hey.” Bouchard pushes him. “Who you calling an asshole?”
“Your boy! That’s who!” Bradley bellows and shoves Bouchard back.
“I think you’re the one who’s an asshole!” Bouchard shoves him again. This time knocking him to the ground.
Connor drops his stick and skates over, holding his hands out to the side. He attempts to put some distance between the two fighting players.
“Move it, golden boy!” Bradley pushes him. Connor maintains his balance, but that’s all it takes. Suddenly, the rink erupts into a full-on brawl with everyone taking shots at someone.
I stay put and lean on my stick. This is quite the sight and normally it’s this type of melee I relish getting into. But today, with all of my supposed teammates involved, it looks ridiculous. There’s something about this fight and all the emotions being let out that has me wondering if this has been fueled by more than just a group hangover. The air is thick with resentment and long-held grudges. Even Connor is getting knocked around, which I don’t necessarily think is fair. Sure, in a game, I’m usually all about knocking him off his pedestal, but this is different. This looks malicious, and it makes me uneasy as I watch.
I’m about to skate over and attempt to break things up when Coach finally blows his whistle. “That’s enough!” he yells over the fray. He pulls Connor away from the scrum and shakes his head at him, then turns around to address everyone else. “We’re supposed to be a team and you’re all acting like a bunch of brats!” He skates around them, then stops by me. “Hit the showers! We’re done today!” He claps me on the shoulder as everyone, including Connor, skates off, looking like scolded children. “One more thing!” He catches their attention again. “Be sure to congratulate your new alternate captain. Marshal’s the only adult out of all of you.”
No one except Bouchard seems pleased with this news. He skates over and grabs me in a sweaty hug, lifting me all of an inchoff the ice.
“Careful there, buddy,” I tease. “Don’t want to hurt yourself.”
“Fuck you.” He laughs and punches my arm with his gloved hand.
I lean in and whisper to him. “Nice shot on Warren, by the way.”
“That guy’s a real asshole. Can’t believe I got completely shit faced with him last night.”
“You should have gone to bed like I told you to.”
“You should have stayed out with me.” He smirks. “It was probably our last chance to get laid now that we’re on lockdown.”
“I think I’ll survive.”
“I won’t,” he says as he skates off.
“Congratulations.” Connor appears at my side. He’s rubbing his jaw, which is beginning to bruise. He must have taken a shot to the face in the brawl. I won’t say that the bruise looks good on him because it doesn’t. But it does make him look more rugged. There’s something exciting about seeing him look less than his usual perfect self. He thumps me on my shoulder. “You deserve that A,” he says. “Maybe more than I deserve captain.”
“Don’t tempt me to take the title from you,” I say as he skates off. I could do it too. It would be easy. But then who would I be? Someone no better than his father.
FIVE
Connor
