Now we could barely look at each other.
What the hell was I supposed to do aboutanyof that?
My focus sharpened when I went out for warmups that night. We were playing in Boston, and these assholes had knocked us out of the playoffs last year. It hadn’t been pretty, either; things had gone all right for the first two games of the series, but then they’d started injuring our players. They’d been out for blood, and they’d gotten it, with the refs only calling some of them as minor penalties instead of ejecting players and fining or suspending them. It was a shitshow and a half.
By the fourth game, three of our forwards and two defensemen were down with head injuries. In games five and six, we lost both goalies. The next thing we knew, were in an elimination game with five kids from the farm team skating, our third-string goalie in the net, and a nineteen-year-old backup goalie who’d never played at this level before, never mind in the playoffs.
They’d wiped the floor with us.
Now we were healthy and out for redemption. And revenge. Revenge was definitely on the list.
They weren’t just going to roll over and take it, though. As soon as the puck dropped, the game turned physical. Hard checks. At least three or four crosschecks that didn’t get called.
Okay, fine. If the refs weren’t going to call penalties—prison rules!
A defenseman tried to poke-check the puck away from me. I slammed him hard into the boards—not high, not dangerously, but definitely enough to leave him in a heap while I continued into the offensive zone. A minute later, someone slammed Davis into the boards, which resulted in a brief scuffle, but no gloves came off and no whistle was blown. Boston snagged possession and broke away, and Davis wisely ditched the scrum to help us on defense. Thenduring a commercial break, Astala and someone from Boston started yapping at each other, which led to them dropping gloves. The video must’ve been hilarious for people watching at home—two players going at it while the ice crew skated around them with their snow shovels.
After sitting for five minutes, Astala and the other guy came out of the box during another stoppage, and there was still two and a half minutes to go in the first period.
The fans were getting their money’s worth, that was for damn sure.
The second period started much the same way. Lots of checking, pushing, shoving, and crosschecking. And we were moving the puck around and getting scoring chances during that, too. We’d come out of the first period with a 2-0 lead, thanks in part to Ziggy standing on his head, and now we were as determined to make it 3-0 as Boston was to get on the board and catch up with us.
Seconds after yet another faceoff, a whistle shrieked at the same time there was a ripple of shock from the crowd.
Oh, no. What now?
I turned, and the panic that tore through me almost knocked me off my skates.
Blood pounded in my ears, the only sound in the otherwise silent arena.
Someone was down, one of our guys and an opposing player crouched beside him as Trews waved to our bench for help.
Oh.Shit.
I skated closer, and just before Evan got to him, I saw the number on his sleeve.
Nineteen.
Peyton.
Evan crouched beside him. Peyton was moving, at least;hands and feet, which was always a good sign. He was on his side, though, curled in on himself. That could mean any number of things. Head injury? Ribs? Wind knocked out of him?
Evan still had his towel over his shoulder, so no blood. A good sign, but it also left a lot of questions.
Come on. How bad is he?
Please get up, Peyton.
Please, please get up.
I didn’t think my heart had ever beat as fast as it did in that moment, and it was only when my vision started darkening around the edges that I realized I’d forgotten to breathe.
Shit. Shit, I needed to pull it together. There was nothing I could do to help Peyton, and falling to pieces myself wouldn’t help him or anyone else.
I skated in some small circles, ostensibly to keep my legs loose. Mostly I just needed to move. I couldn’t stay still and watch Evan tending to Peyton.
I didn’t watch the replay. I wanted to know Peyton was all right, but I didn’t want to watch the slow-motion video of whatever had happened. Judging by the collective gasp that went up… No. No, I didnotneed to see that.
