Despite our messy practice, the team is focused and clear. I wasn’t expecting Koen to sleep in our bed, but it helped his mood a lot. I won’t tease him about it yet, that’ll have to wait until he’s more used to us.
It’s as if the gremlin was replaced for a much more chill omega and I’m here for it.
Richards tears down the ice ahead of us on the next play, trying to take the puck from the Saints.
“Here, here little Devils!” I call out, skating hard behind Richards.
Skating to his left, I slam into a Saint, disrupting their movement down the ice.
“You’re smart enough to know we aren’t the Devils, or is your head so far up the Captain’s ass that you don’t know the difference?” he asks.
“Huh? I can’t hear you,” I reply, smirking as said captain hits the player next to him.
Koen steals the puck back, but we are very close to Rhodes’ crease. We’re all fighting to move away and Rhodes slides out slightly with his eyes on the puck at all times. I’m very worried we’re going to run into him, but there’s not much I can do other than continue to fight to keep the biscuit.
There's an unspoken rule not to touch the goalie, but the Saints are being assholes tonight. One of the forwards slides into Rhodes as he attempts to hit the puck away from Koen. Instead, he gets punched by Rhodes for his efforts, and all hell breaks loose.
Koen hits the closest Saint to him before slamming the puck with his blade away from him. Now that there’s no way anyone will score on our pissed off goalie, words and fists fly.
The ice is littered with gloves, sticks, and helmets, and it’s all out war. It takes way too long for the referees to get involved, and there’s blood on the ice from the fight.
Everyone is pulled away to disinfect the ice, and Coach looks like he’s about to shit bricks. Since this is going to take awhile, we’re all called to the locker room to talk. Once there, our doctor walks around to attend to cuts, shaking his head as Coach Weightman appears to be ready to breathe fire.
“What the fuck was that all about?” he asks.
“They slid into me,” Rhodes says, shrugging. “The Saints have been riding us hard. Should we have ignored the slight?”
“No,” Coach Weightman groans. “Has anyone fucked over a Saint recently?”
“Maybe Carrington has his panties in a twist because his brother has the hots for me,” Olsson teases. “He’s been hitting Skylar non stop, Coach. Enough is enough. We need to bury them. Nothing they do will make them a better team or help them win.”
“At least put a few more points on the scoreboard before the next fight,” Coach says resignedly. “Also, try not to get any more excessive blood on the ice, please.”
I’m pretty sure that was Rhodes’ fault, but none of us will throw him under the bus. Each of us tap our knuckles against his temple gently as we file past, and since I’m the last one, I kiss him hard before allowing him to stand.
“Hard-ons suck in a cup,” Rhodes groans, making me smirk. That’s the point. “You’re sadistic.”
“I can be worse,” I mutter, walking out of the locker room.
The rest of the game is fierce, and Koen skates circles around the goalie’s posts as he hides from the Saints. They want to fight to run down the clock, but my Little Viking refuses to give in.
People misunderstand his willingness to fight with irresponsible aggression. Koen won’t ever allow himself to be any less than his best for the team. That’s why this last practice confused his teammates. It’s not like him, and we’re fucking with his head.
I just want him to see that we could be so fucking good for him. Plus, I owe him a punishment.
I’m currently riding the bench as others defend our captain, and I grit my jaw hard as I watch him.
“I know, I know,” Coach mutters. “I thought maybe they’d let up on him if you weren’t there, but it’s worse.”
My breath is torn from my chest as Koen shoots the puck at the goalie, and he’s swept off his skates. Our captain is laid out on his back, and appears slightly stunned.
Fuck, that had to have hurt.
“Fuck!” Coach screams, ignoring that the puck slipped past the goalie’s shoulder and wins us another point. “Are you going to do anything? Ref!”
The whistle blows as our players push away the Saints, glaring at them as they help Koen onto his feet. My Little Viking is fucking pissed, and we’re close to the end of the game.
“Get back in there,” Coach grunts, watching as the players who tripped Koen are flagged. “I hope they enjoy the penalty box.”
