“Refs need to call it tighter,” Brennan agreed, his jaw clenched. “Before someone gets hurt.”
But the refs seemed content to let them play, and as the period wound down, the hits got later, harder, more deliberate. A slash on Martinez that went uncalled. A knee-on-knee hit on Webb that should have been a major penalty but wasn’t even a minor. HIT scored, but that didn’t diminish their aggression.
I found myself gripping the boards, my knuckles white. This was getting dangerous.
The third period started with Adan scoring again, a gorgeous breakaway goal that showcased everything we’d worked on: speed, hands, shot selection. 4-1 Millard, and the HIT bench was seething.
“Keep your heads up out there!” Brennan shouted during a line change. “They’re headhunting!”
He wasn’t wrong. HIT had clearly decided if they couldn’t win, they’d make us pay physically. And they’d identified Adan as target number one.
Every shift, someone was taking runs at him. Late hits, slashes behind the play, little shots after the whistle. Adan gave as good as he got, finishing his checks, not backing down, but I could see the toll it was taking.
“They’re going to hurt someone,” I said, unable to keep the worry out of my voice.
“Rivera can handle himself,” Brennan replied, but I could see the concern in his eyes too. “Kid’s tougher than he looks.”
“Tough doesn’t protect against cheap shots.”
As if to prove my point, a HIT forward caught Adan with an elbow in the corner, snapping his head back. No call.
“That’s fucking bullshit!” Kevin yelled at the referee. “Call the fucking game!”
The ref skated by without acknowledging him.
With six minutes left, the inevitable happened. Adan went into the corner to dig out a loose puck, a HIT defenseman right on him. I saw it developing before it happened: the defenseman’s elbow coming up, the angle all wrong, the intent clear.
The hit was dirty: elbow high, direct to Adan’s head, intent to injure obvious to anyone watching. Adan’s head snapped back sickeningly, but he came up swinging, gloves already dropping.
“Shit,” Brennan muttered.
The HIT player was bigger, had the advantage of not being dazed from a head shot. They traded punches, the crowd on its feet, screaming. The helmets came off, and nausea swirled in my stomach. This wasn’t going to end well. Why wasn’t the ref interfering?
Adan held his own for a few seconds, landing a solid right that staggered the defenseman. Then another HIT player jumped in, grabbing Adan from behind. I was over the boards before conscious thought kicked in, my shoes slipping on the ice. Kevin and the refs were right behind me, but those few seconds of Adan taking punches from two players felt like hours. One caught him square in the nose, and I heard the sickening crack from ten feet away. Another to his eye, snapping his head to the side.
“Get the fuck off him!” I roared, grabbing the second HIT player and hauling him backward with strength I didn’t know I possessed.
By the time we separated everyone, Adan was swaying on his skates, blood streaming from his nose, his left eye already swelling shut. He was trying to stay upright, but I could see him struggling.
“Get him off the ice,” Coach Brennan barked.
I guided Adan toward the tunnel, my arm around his waist, trying to support him without seeming too familiar. But professionalism was the last thing on my mind. Up close, the damage was worse. Definitely a broken nose, blood still flowing freely. His left eye was swelling rapidly, and he was holding his jaw in a way that made my stomach clench.
“Hurts,” he mumbled through the blood.
“I know. You’re doing great. Just lean on me.”
“Can’t see… Everything’s fuzzy…”
“That’s okay. I’ve got you. Trust me.”
The training room was chaos. Our team doctor took one look and shook his head grimly. “He needs X-rays. Possible facial fractures, definite concussion from that elbow. Get him to Buffalo General. Now.”
“I’ll call an ambulance,” Kevin said, already reaching for his phone.
“Are your parents here?” I asked Adan.
“No… Mom was sick and Dad didn’t want to leave her home alone.”
