But I could feel him staring at me.
“Touched a nerve, didn’t I?” he asked.
I didn’t respond. Didn’t trust myself to speak.
“You think I don’t notice? The way you look at him? The way you two are always together?”
“Shut up, Boucher.”
“Or what? You’ll fight me again?” He laughed. “Go ahead. Just proves my point.”
I stared straight ahead at the ice, watching the game continue without us. San Jose had a power play—five on three with both of us in the box.
They scored.
2–1 San Jose.
All of it my fault.
When the penalty expired, I skated back to the bench, keeping my head down.
Coach didn’t look at me.
In the locker room during intermission, the silence was deafening.
Coach Wilson stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“Morelli. Boucher. What the hell was that?”
Neither of us spoke.
“We’re down a goal because we were playing five-on-three while you two had your little boxing match. Our teammates are fighting each other.” His voice rose. “What could possibly be worth that?”
“He started it,” I said, the words sounding childish even as they left my mouth.
“I don’t care who started it! You don’t take the bait!” Coach’s face was red. “Boucher, you want to run your mouth,take it up with me after the game. Morelli, you want to fight someone, fight the other team.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He turned to the rest of the room. “Second period, I need everyone focused. No more penalties. No more drama. Just hockey. Am I clear?”
A chorus of “Yes, Coach” answered him.
His eyes came back to me. “Morelli. How’s the foot?”
“Fine, Coach.”
“Good. Because I need you thinking with your head, not your fists. That defensive coverage in the first period before the fight—that wasn’t like you.”
“Won’t happen again.”
“It better not. Now everyone, get your heads straight. We’ve got forty minutes to win this game.”
I sat at my stall, my jaw throbbing from Boucher’s right hook.
Across the room, Boucher was getting his knuckles taped by the trainer. He caught my eye and smirked.
He knew he’d gotten to me. And worse—he knew why.
