“On it.” He’s already moving in for the puck.
I wedge between Madden and Donnelly to break it up, but the nearest ref isn’t having it. He pushes me away and takes Madden by the arm. Graves has a wild look in his eyes. His control seems seconds from snapping.
Shit. We can’t have him lose it on a game official.
“Come on, that guy started it.”
“Settle down,” the ref barks at me. “Unless you want to be booted from the game?”
I give him a stiff, forceful shake of my head. He lets us off with a strong warning and sends Madden back to the penalty box.
First period comes to an end without either side scoring. I slap Madden on the back when we head through the tunnel for the break, tuning out Coach yelling about waking up and putting up points in the second.
“I screwed up,” Madden mutters.
“Nothing you can do about it now, man. No point in dwelling on it.”
“Take your own advice, East,” Cameron says. “You need to leave it off the ice if you want to finish this game.”
“I’ll be fine. Donnelly’s just having a fucking pissy fit.” I swipe a hand over my mouth. “Do you guys have my back? He’s been getting in too many dirty shots the refs are missing.”
“Yeah,” Cameron answers without hesitation. “But watch it. We’re too close to playoffs to screw around.”
“I know. We’re kicking Elmwood’s ass tonight. Right?”
A chorus of cheers sounds around me from our teammates.
For the first half of second period, I remain focused on the game. Both teams get the puck in the net, tying the score.
I’m moving the puck down the center, looking for a winger to evade Elmwood’s defense when Donnelly trips me with his stick.
He covers it by checking into me, sending both of us crashing to the ice.
“You’re asking for it, you dick,” I snap.
Once again, the refs are ignorant to the shit he’s getting by their radar.
I shoot him a glare as I get to my feet and retrieve my stick, then chase down the puck. He’s right on my ass.
It was fun to clash with him at the beginning, two rivals duking out our frustrations.
Now he’s really pissing me off.
I ram my shoulder into him, sending him sideways before he comes at me with another cheap shot.
“What’s your problem, Donnelly?”
“You!” He bares his teeth, charging me when he should be chasing the puck in his team’s possession.
That’s it.
“You wanna go? Let’s fucking go.”
Donnelly shoves me, growing more heated. His gloves hit the ice and he comes at me.
I’m ready for him, tossing off my gloves to catch his jersey. He throws punches I block and dodge, then I get a good hit in. It sends a rush of gratification coursing through me.
We jerk and swing each other around in circles, ignoring the shouts from our teammates and the game officials.
