Jennings claps me on the back. “Now there’s the Briggsy I know and love.” He leaves the locker room to retrieve them, coming back with the foul-smelling tube of salt that never fails to wake me the fuck up.
I put it to my nose, take a whiff, and let a “Let’s go!” fly out of my mouth. Answering shouts chorus around the room from my teammates. They’ve been giving me little nods all day, the kind they used to give Volk in the hours before we played Justin Ward. The games against our biggest division rival ratchet the intensity, but I suspect today might lift us to an entirely new level.
Volk taps his stick against mine as we line up on the ice for the national anthem. “You ready for this?”
I glance across the rink. Justin fucking Ward stares at me with an insufferable shit-eating grin. I don’t care that he runs a charity for underprivileged youth, he’s still the biggest piece of shit in the league. The biggest piece of shit I’ve ever come across, period.
“Fuck yeah, I am,” I reply, glaring right back at Ward, tipping my lips in a half smile. That injury shook me to my core, but I’ll be damned if I give this asshole the satisfaction of letting it show.
The first half of the first period goes by without a whiff of indecency, but like every other game, the crowd anxiously waits for the inevitable spark to set our hatred aflame. All our games sell out these days, ever since we became a staple in the playoffs, so the crowd roar isn’t unique.
The undercurrent of anxiety though? It’s not standard.
The game’s physical, like every game against this team. There are scrums in front of the net, some punishing—but legal—hits and trash talk exchanged.
But it isn’t until the end of the first period that they cross a line.
I’m behind the net retrieving the puck in our O-zone, and I push it out to Volk halfway between me and the blue line. Seconds later, a body slams me into the boards. There’s an immediate whistle because the dumbass chose to violate the rules with a ref less than ten feet away. Ward’s goon-in-training, Prentiss, throws his arms up to complain about the “bullshit” call.
Ward has his teammates doing his dirty work for him tonight. As the thought crosses my mind, I’m slammed again, with more force this time. My hands come up to stop my head from taking the brunt of the hit.
“How’s the head kid?” Ward shouts into my ear.
I don’t fight often, but I have a line, and this motherfucker crossed it.
I pop back up—this isn’t the first time I’ve been boarded, and it won’t be the last. They’ll have to knock me unconscious again to keep me down.
“Never better.” I throw my gloves onto the ice, and my blades ease me toward him. “Something you won’t be able to say after I beat your ass.”
Ward rears back and laughs. “You don’t want to fight me,Briggsy.”
“It’s Briggs to you,” I say, picking up speed to close the gap between us and shove him. The move catches Ward by surprise, so he loses his balance a little, an annoyance more than a disadvantage.
“All right,” Ward shouts, removing his gloves one at a time. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Well, fuck,” someone mutters fifteen seconds before Niko Halonen decks Ward across the face.
The rink descends into chaos.
Ward charges Halo while Prentiss, who had skated toward the box, comes charging back at me. Everyone is swinging at someone, and the benches empty, every player joining this shit show.
It’s a long time before the refs manage to separate us, frantically blowing their whistles, skating from fight to fight. Matt helps them break up fights while their dirty-ass captain—Ward—gets whaled on by Niko. By the time the refs sort out the penalties, Volk, Halo, and I all end up in the box together, while Ward, Prentiss, and another goon—whose only contribution is hurting the opposing team—crowd their sin bin.
“Aw, do you have someone else fight all your battles?” Ward taunts.
“At least people pay to watch me! Didn’t these people used to cheer for you? Well, not these people exactly, because you couldn’t win a fucking game before Volk and I got here. Listen to them now.”
I’m talking too much, and it’s unlikely Ward can hear me over the roar of the crowd shouting “Cheaters never win” at him. There’s too much adrenaline firing through my veins. I’m hopping up and down on my skates, anxious to charge back onto the ice.
Volk’s hand lands on my forearm and tugs me onto the bench. “What have I told you about fighting out of your weight class?”
“Don’t start,” I mutter, my skates tapping the ground. I don’t think I could stop them if I tried.
“I fucking hate that guy,” Halo groans.
“Fucking tell me about it.” Volk damn near growls the words.
“He’s the worst,” I agree.
