While he was doing some stretches near the penalty box, I skated up beside him. “Hey.” I lowered my voice. “You want to know something about the other team?”
He turned to me, eyebrows up behind his visor. “What?”
“Number fifteen? Dodson?” I nodded as subtly as I could toward the other end of the ice. “He’srealeasy to rile up.”
Trews grinned. “Yeah?”
“Mmhmm. Annoy the shit out of him, and he’ll make mistakes.”
“Doesn’t like getting chirped at?” the kid asked. “Or doesn’t like getting the puck taken away?”
“Both, but chirps especially piss him off. If you can steal the puck and talk shit at the same time, he might even break a stick over his leg.”
Trews cackled. “Ooh, this is going to be fun.”
I laughed and tapped his skate with my stick.
It was a strategic move, of course—Dodson really was entirely too easy to goad into making costly mistakes. It also had the other desired effect, though: as near as I could tell, Trews forgot all about the nerves he had about playing in this arena. All through the rest of warmups, he kept shooting glances toward the other team, grinning to himself. After puck drop, whenever we were on the bench, I could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he tracked Dodson’s movements. If Dodson wasn’t on the ice, then Trews zeroed in on other players, similar gears turning behind his wicked eyes and smartass grin.
Hell. That worked better than I’d hoped, and I filed it away for future games—when his nerves threatened to get the best of him, redirect him into ice gremlin mode.
It wasn’t just keeping Trews focused, either. Dodson was, predictably, not happy about the pest chirping at him and getting in his way. Coach seemed to have caught on, too—he had Trews and his D partner, Astala, playing more minutes than usual. I mean, why not give the rookie more ice time if he’s distracting the star forward enough to keep him from scoring?
About five minutes into the second period, Trews and Astala were again on the ice at the same time as my line—and Dodson’s. As I was setting up for the faceoff, I did my usual glance around to make sure I knew where everyone was. When my gaze landed on Trews, I had to bite down on my mouthguard to keep from laughing. He was laser-focused on Dodson.
The puck dropped. Dodson won the draw, and he quickly passed it to one of his wingers.
Davis was closest to the winger, and he poke-checked the puck away. Not enough to gain control, but it was enough to make the winger lose possession. Perfect. Davis managed to grab the puck, and?—
A whistle blew.
What the hell?
I turned around right as an official shouted, “Two minutes for cross-checking!”
“Oh, come on!” Dodson barked. “That was not?—”
“You want an unsportsmanlike, too?”
That was when I realized Trews was down. He was no worse for the wear, pushing himself back up on his skates, but the wince said he’d taken a hard hit. A crosscheck, apparently, and while he was miles away from the puck.
I skated up to him as he was taking off one of his gloves. “You okay?”
He nodded and gingerly rubbed his neck with his ungloved hand. “Think I can sue him for whiplash?”
I grimaced, and I was about to make a smartass comment when the crowd started roaring in a familiar bloodthirsty way.
I spun around, and my heart jumped.
Avery and Dodson faced off amid scattered gloves and sticks, their fists up and their mouths moving, though I couldn’t hear a word they were saying over the crowd. Their faces filled in the blanks, though—they were both pissed, snarling and shouting as they squared off.
It was Dodson who finally took a swing. Avery deftly avoided it, then grabbed a handful of Dodson’s jersey and landed a hard hit to his face. Dodson staggered a bit—I think the only thing holding him upright was the grip Avery had on his sweater—and he managed to block the second blow. Then fists were flying, and the crowd was screaming, people banging on the glass as players tapped sticks on ice and boards.
Dodson got a grip on Avery’s jersey and, I thought, his chest protecter, and he spun him around, pulling him off-balance. They both toppled, Avery landing hard on his back, which only egged on the Dodson-favoring crowd.
The refs stepped in, of course; they always did once the players went down. Someone managed to haul Dodson off Avery. Avery was on his feet in a heartbeat, still spitting nails and shouting after Dodson as blood ran down his lip and chin. I jumped in and grabbed him, pushing him back with a hand on his chest.
“Crosscheck the rookie like that again!” he snarled past me. “I fucking dare you!”
