Forcing my voice to say low—don’t want to give Coach a reason to think I’m about to fly off the handle—I mutter, “I hope so, but what the fuck was that guy thinking? Putting that on the Jumbotron? That was fucking cruel.”
Blue grunts, his eyes narrowing on the ice. “He wasn’t thinking. Most people aren’t, you know that. Thoughtless people are often cruel.”
It’s my turn to grunt.
In agreement.
Thoughtless peopleareoften cruel. Which is why I need to encourage them to be more thoughtful.
With my fists.
“Just keep your head down and try to let it go,” Blue adds, as if reading my mind. “Charlotte wouldn’t want this to affect your game. That would only make her feel worse than she likely does already.”
He’s right. As usual.
I can’t murder the Jumbotron operator. I can’t even rough him up a little. Icanwrite a scathing letter to human resources, and I fully intend to, but that doesn’t give me anything to do with the cold fury freezing my blood right now.
I’m still sub-zero as we climb over the boards, our line surging back onto the ice.
The puck is already in play, and I track it, moving on instinct.
But as much as I will myself to focus, a part of me is still up in the concourse with Charlotte. Is she getting help after whatever happened? Has some Good Samaritan at least offered her their Voodoo fan towel—the one they whip around in circles when they do the “Good Times Roll” chant—to dry off with? Are Elly and Makena rushing to the rescue with wet wipes and first aid kits, and all the other magical things women keep in their purses?
Why weren’t Elly and Makena with her in the concourse? What was she doing out there? The WAG box is fully stocked with food and drinks and has a private bathroom, so I…
I flinch, thoughts zooming back to the ice as the Outlaws’ center charges straight for me, a glower on his beefy face. He’s clearly looking for vengeance for that hip check.
Fine.
If he wants to keep playing rough, we can play rough. My inner chill is finally thawing into something more familiar, a hot rage I know exactly what to do with.
I line him up.
Wait for the perfect moment…
Then brace for impact and lean into the hit.
It’s legal. Clean. Shoulder to chest, but hard enough that he goes flying into the boards with a crash that echoes through the arena.
The whistle blows. The ref skates over, checking on the guy. But Beefy waves him off, getting back to his feet with another glare in my direction.
No penalty.
Good.
Because I’ve got more rage to burn…
By the time the first period ends, I’ve racked up three hits that make the highlight reel, blocked two shots, and nearly started a fight with their enforcer when he took exception to my attitude, which is admittedly poor.
As we head down the tunnel, Coach appears at my side, murmuring in his warlord voice, “Wrath is good, but don’t let it lead to ruin. Hot, but not too hot, son.”
I nod. “Got it. I’m good. I promise.”
“You look thirsty,” he says. “For blood.”
I exhale a ragged laugh. “Metaphorically, coach. Only metaphorically.”
He studies me for a beat. “Good. Keep it that way. And keep it legal.”
