“Don’t you fucking dare,” I repeat, but it’s too late—Pulkkinen and Bell each grab ahold of my arms and pin me against the wall, just as Häkkänen raises the cake in one hand.
“Eat up, baby bitch,” he says, then smashes it into my face.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Coach Marshall snap a photo. I’m going to murder them all.
I spit out a mouthful of sponge and frosting, but then licking my lips, I find it tastes pretty good. Strawberry rhubarb—just like home.
“Damn, Häkkänen. Did you bake this?” I say, mopping the sponge and frosting out of my eyes.
“Do I look like I bake?”
I soon learn, Häkkänen does, very much in fact, bake. We devour the remnants of cake that haven’t landed on my head or on the floor before showering off and starting our prep talks for tonight’s game. Looking around at everyone, listening to them all chirp at each other, I realize I’m really going to miss this.
I hit theice that night in a pretty good mood all things considered, ready to play my heart out. My mood goes up in flames when the game begins with a charity announcement from Hugh Hearst and the jumbo feed cuts to his VIP box. She’s there, standing right next to him, clapping along as some charity that I’m sure they’re only using as a tax write-off is mentioned. Masquerading as a saint, she’s lying to us all one last time before she takes everyone in this arena for all they’re worth.
It’s despicable.
Those suits from the banquet are behind her, too. I tear my eyes away before I get so mad I snap my stick. To make matters worse, Armstrong, the Ravens’ center, starts chirping at me before the puck drops.
“Heard you’re losing your edge, Falkenberg. Word on the street is Moreau’s gonna replace you as starting wing before too long. Your record the last few games hasn’t exactly been playoff-worthy.”
I shove him hard with my shoulder when the puck hits the ice. Luckily, I manage to break away with it, skating hard before slipping it over to Bell. We’re too fast—their forwards haven’t caught up yet. Bell maneuvers the puck around their defenseman, then passes it back to me. I catch it, stop it, and with all the muscle in my body I slapshot it towards the net.
Their goaltender catches it, but barely.
“That’s what I’m talking about, jerkoff,” Armstrong whispers in my ear.
I tell Poirier to check him.
Poirier does on my next shift, slamming Armstrong against the boards as he’s making a break for the goal. The puck goes offside. Armstrong isn’t having it. He rips his gloves off, but Poirier is faster, managing to plant his fist in Armstrong’s cheek just as the latter lands one in Poirier’s gut. A whistle blows, but they don’t listen, and two refs skate over to break them up. They’re still yapping at each other even as they’re forced apart. I can’t hear much of it, but I swear Poirier says something likeI’m gonna fuck your mom’s sad, lonely pussy until you’re calling me stepdaddyas they’re both shoved into the box. Even after, they’re trash-talking each other through the glass.
It’s heart-warming, the way you can always count on Poirier to take a punch for his team. Only now, we’re down our best defenseman on a power play thanks to Morales also being in the box for slashing. My shift ends as I swap out for Moreau. I take a seat on the bench and glance up at the VIP boxes again. I can’t see her, but I know she’s up there, bumping elbows and making her rounds with the men who are going to pay her fortune. I’m so distracted that I don’t even realize the Ravens have scored until the crowd erupts in boos.
I hate this.
The second period has barely started when I slapshot the puck into the net so hard my stick cracks, ice chips flying everywhere. We’re tied, two to two. We need to pull ahead. I play harder, faster, doing everything I can to get the puck in my possession, giving it 110%. My lungs are screaming, my thighs burning from the constant bursts of speed, but we have to get that lead. At some point, I hear Fontenot off my right shoulder, shouting at me to pass to him, but I ignore him because I don’t trust his rookie maneuvers. He’s not consistent.
I shoot and miss.
Then we’re chasing down the ice on what’s sure to be the last play of the period. We’ve only got twenty seconds left, and I’m determined to get that last goal to pull ahead. We can’t go into the third period with a tie. LeBlanc passes the puck and I catch it, skirting it around their defensemen lightning fast. I know Armstrong is on my tail. I can hear him barking, but as usual, he’s not quite fast enough.
His stickis long enough, though.
He snakes it out in front of me, knocking the puck out of my possession, and my goal slips away. I make a dive for it, stick outstretched, but Armstrong’s miscalculated. His lunge must have put him on his toes. He stumbles over his skate and crashes into me, sending me flying towards the boards. I try to find my footing but it’s happening too fast—I careen into them at near top speed, and Armstrong crashes into me, crushing my head against the rink wall.
I don’t feel any pain at first. I just see stars.
Then my ears start to ring.
Bright lights swim in and out of focus overhead. I feel my back against the cold ice and know I need to get up. I have to finish the period.
Somehow, I manage to roll onto all fours. I try to push myself up but my elbows buckle, just as a wave of nausea rips through my gut, making me heave bile onto the ice.
I land hard in a puddle of vomit. Everything goes dark.
Chapter 50
Freddie
