I’d roll with it for now. Act like everything was normal, interact with him like any other teammate, and see if he followed suit. Sometimes that was all it took, especially among guys who didn’t have a clue what else to do.
After intermission, we headed back out onto the ice.
Peyton was walking (and then skating) a touch gingerly, but he was holding his own. Probably best not to make him sprint more than necessary, though.
I skated up to Davis as we all warmed up again. “Hey. Let’s keep the breakaways to you and me.” I tipped my head toward Peyton. “Maybe not have him doing the longer sprints?”
Davis’s eyebrows shot up. Then he glanced toward Peyton and nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah, we can… That makes sense.” He turned to me again. “So you guys are cool now?”
I shrugged that away as if there’d never been any question. “We’re fine.”
He eyed me skeptically but didn’t push the issue.
Shortly after that, it was game on again, and I had to admit, it was probably just as well Coach had warned me off fighting Larsson. Because Ireallywanted to fight Larsson. Every time I so much as glimpsed his number, his name, or his stupid face, I saw red.
I was on thin ice with Coach, though. He didn’t like how much I’d been fighting lately, or how many penalties I’d been taking, and that conversation outside the locker room had been about more than just dispensing some justice on Larsson.
Fine.Fine.
I wouldn’t throw gloves with Larsson. I might check him. Maybe even risk a crosscheck just to get my point across. Absolutely chirp the shit out of him. One way or another, this game wasn’t ending without him knowing damn well he’d screwed up.
In the end, I didn’t lay a hand on Larsson.
Trews, however, checked him hard into the boards. Harder than necessary, yes, though not what I’d call dirty.
It pissed off Larsson something fierce, and he punched Trews.
The whistle blew before anyone could drop gloves. Larsson not only got a penalty, he got a double minor, since it was deemed unnecessary roughness. Maybe they thought the blood was enough to warrant the extra penalty. Maybethey were just as fed up with Larsson as the Whiskey Rebels were.
It was also possible they thought putting him in the box for four minutes would be enough to let us all simmer down enough that we didn’t kill him.
Either way, he was mad, Trews was fine, and we extended our 3-0 lead to 5-0. That last goal? A beautiful top shelf from Peyton, with an assist from Trews.
Perfect.
CHAPTER 16
PEYTON
We’d played in Boston tonight, but now we were back at the hotel instead of heading to the airport. The original plan had been to fly to Buffalo right after the game so we could play there the day after tomorrow. Unfortunately, Buffalo was getting hammered with “don’t even think about flying in here” weather, and the hotel in Boston had been able to accommodate us for another night, so… here we were. Tomorrow afternoon, assuming the weather let up, we’d fly to Buffalo, but for now, we could just chill in the hotel bar.
Chill. Yeah, right. There was nothing “chill” about a hockey team still vibrating with excitement after a decisive win.
“To owning Boston on their own ice!” Eminem said, holding up glass.
“Cheers!” We all clinked our glasses and bottles together, then took deep pulls from them.
“All hail Ziggy!” Baddy added. “Third shutout of the season!”
Everyone roared, and Davis slapped our big goalie onhis narrow shoulders hard enough that Ziggy almost choked on his beer.
“Hey!” Ziggy elbowed him in the pec. “Don’t spill my fucking beer!”
“Well, protect it.” Davis grinned wide. “That’s your job!”
Ziggy just groaned, gave Davis a shove, and drank his beer.
I was sitting on Davis’s other side, across the long table from Avery and Eminem. The mood in the hotel bar was raucously happy—we’d shut out Boston 5-0, which the guys were saying felt like repentance after Boston had knocked Pittsburgh out of the playoffs last season. I hadn’t been part of that, but Boston had swept my team, kicking our asses 3-1, 8-4, 4-2, and that incredibly embarrassing 6-0 just before the playoffs. They were a good team—had made it to the Eastern Conference Finals and barely lost that series—and it always felt good to hand them their asses.
