Vegas took the puck.
He lunged after the player, making one last effort to get it back. Frustration tugged at him, but he fought it. His team needed him to be better.
What the hell was wrong with him?It was like the hockey instincts that lived somewhere between his muscles and his brain had gotten tangled. He was working harder than he ever had, pushing his body to the brink, andstillnothing was going right.
He’d made it a few feet up the ice when Cody picked off Vegas’ attempt to pass up the wall. A wave of relief left Jamie feeling almost lightheaded. At least his mistake hadn’t cost his team a point.
He needed to focus. The puck was…there. On the left wing with Cooper. There wasn’t an open window for Coop to shoot, but if he could get it across to Mitch there was a chance Jamie could hold his position on Dorren long enough for Mitch to take advantage of the open lane to the net.
Cooper passed up to Esa in the middle of the ice. Jamie held his position, skates dug in as he leaned heavily into Dorren’s side. Esa faked the shot, and then dished to Mitch.Come on, Mitchy. Come on…
He felt thewhooshof the slap shot move the air beside him, and heard thethunkof the puck against the goalie’s blocker. Jamie tried to extract from Dorren, his eyes searching the ice for the rebound.There, just to the right of the crease. Jamie lunged forward with his stick, reaching with his off hand, and managed to get a piece of the puck, tapping it back toward the net.
A hard body slammed into him, sending him careening backwards.Shit. He flailed his arms, trying to get his footing, but awell-placed elbow from Dorren sent him to the one place he didn’t want to be: directly into Vegas’ goalie.
They both fell back, the goalie’s heavy pads breaking Jamie’s fall. Distantly, he heard the whistle, the ref calling the play dead. Jamie tried to scramble to his feet, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the netminder as possible.
“The fuck, man!’ Dorren shouted, eyes wide and mocking as he bumped his chest in Jamie’s. “You trying to fuck with my goalie?”
“Class act as always, Dorren.” Jamie shook his head, trying to skate away. “Acting like your ass didn’t shove me into your own fucking net.”
Dorren’s sneer turned cold. “Hey, at least I’m doing my job,” he said. “Major downgrade from the last captain, huh? I’m shocked your old ass hasn’t gotten traded.”
Any other night he would have ignored the comment. Talking shit was a part of the game. He’d been in the league for eleven years, and had been playing as an openly gay man for the last five. He’d heard it all.
But tonight, Dorren’s words hit right where it hurt, and with his team down and all eyes on him to score or do something,anythingto warrant the white C stitched on his chest, Jamie didn’t give a flying fuck about taking the high road.
Both of Jamie’s gloves dropped in perfect synchronicity, and he cocked his left fist back as his right hand gripped a handful of Dorren’s white jersey.
Jamie had played many roles throughout the course of his professional hockey career: a two-way center matched against the league’s top scorers, a loud, authoritative voice in the locker room, a player who’d had consistent seventy-five point seasons and the guy who always knew the best place to get a pastry on the road.
One role he’d never had? Fighter.
The first punch to Dorren’s jaw was sloppy, the awkward angle sending a sharp pain up Jamie’s forearm. By the time he drew back for another hit, Dorren had reacted, landing a solidblow to Jamie’s jaw. He tried to hold his own, he really did, but his left hand was throbbing and all he could manage was to take each hit and think about how badly he’d fucked up.
By the time the linesman pulled them apart, Jamie could feel the beginnings of a bruise spreading over his jaw and knew his punch had seriously messed up his hand. He climbed up from where he’d fallen to his knees on the ice, and ignored the half-hearted applause from the home crowd, keeping his head down as he skated over to the penalty box.
“Number 3 for Madison and number 43 for Vegas, 5 minutes each for fighting.”
Goddammit. Jamie felt the eyes of his teammates on him, and gave the bench what he hoped was a reassuring nod.
“Don’t see you in here often, Sully.” Pete, the penalty box attendant who’d been there since Jamie’s rookie year, closed the clear, plexiglass door behind him.
Jaime gave him a strained grin before looking down at his left hand. He flexed his fingers, a sharp hiss escaping him as the bright pain radiated from his middle knuckle and down the back of his hand. Unconsciously, he lifted his right hand to twist and tug at the wet hair curling at the nape of his neck.
A bad habit, he knew, but it was one that had grounded him for years. One that kept his head clear in a game, that helped him move past a mistake.
Dammit Sully. Damn it all.
“They think it’s broken.”
“How long?”
Jamie couldn’t look his best friend, Mitch Jackson, in the eye as he responded, trying to hide the frustration in his voice. “Don’t know yet. I’ll get x-rays tomorrow and then follow up with the doc.”
“The Winter Classic, Sully…” Mitch started, his typically relaxed face marred with a frown that creased the warm brown skin between his eyebrows.
“Fuck, man. I know.” The outdoor game was less than two months away, and Jamie couldn’t stomach thinking he might miss the chance to play because of astupidfucking fight.
