I glance down the bench toward the team PT. I’ll get it checked after this. See if it’s something serious or if it just needs a few days off, some RICE, and less ego.
For now, I adjust. Stay off the inside edge on that side unless I have no choice.
The Red Wings are frustrated, down by three, and we’re not letting up. Their second line’s been getting chippy all game, but now they’re throwing desperation at the net, hoping something might stick. Frustration makes people stupid.
No. 93, Tyler Jackson, flies up the wing.
Of course it’s him. I clocked his rotation earlier. Jackson’s a sniper with a temper, always the typeto take cheap shots when he’s getting shut out. I’ve played against him too many times. Never liked him. Nobody does.
Zed used to be on the same roster with him back in New York, years ago. The Rangers let Zed go first. More money, more talent, more potential. Jackson never got over it. Pretty sure he still thinks it should’ve been the other way around.
He winds up and rips a puck at Zed from just over the blue line. It’s not a scoring attempt. He knows Zed will stop it. It’s a fuck-you.
Zed blocks it with his chest and the rebound snaps back so fast it smacks Jackson in the helmet. Not on purpose, but it completely destroys the message Jackson was trying to send. His helmet jolts and Jackson skids a bit before charging the net.
We’re all halfway there the second he does.
But Zed moves first, ripping his gloves off just in time for Jackson to reach him. The announcer goes crazy, booming from the speakers, words spilling so fast they’re barely comprehensible.
Zed gives Jackson a small shake of his head, shoving him backward hard enough to send him sliding, nearly tripping over his skates.
The refs rush in, whistles blowing, crowd losing their minds. The jumbotron replays the moment from five angles.
Zed slides his glove back on and puffs out a mildly annoyed sigh.
Coach leans down over the boards toward me, completely unbothered. “You good to go next shift?”
“Yeah,” I say, rolling my shoulder. “Tanner’s still got juice in the tank, though. Let him skate one more with Matt.”
Coach nods. “Jackson’s out. They’re gonna reshuffle his line after that stunt. Probably swap him to third or fourth.”
“Good. He doesn’t deserve first.”
Coach snorts and taps the board with his marker. “After this shift, I want you back on. Run support for Line Two. Tanner and Matt might have one more left in them, but I want to stabilize the middle before we rotate.”
“Copy.”
I glance toward the ice, where Jackson is still barking at the refs like a kid who didn’t get picked for dodgeball. Then my eyes slide back to Zed, adjusting his stance. Yeah, we’re lucky to have him. Coaches talk about him like he’s a gift. Stats don’t lie. He’s a huge name for a reason.
But after what I found online, there’s a lot about my old friend that doesn’t add up. I want to ask him. Hell, I’ve been meaning to. But how the fuck do you bring something like that up?
I’m not going to pretend hockey isn’t a violent sport; sometimes players seek an opportunity to channel their adrenaline into a fight. Not Zed, though. I have never seen him violent. I haven’t even seen him riled up. Anyone else would’ve let Jackson hit them just so they had a reason to hit back.
Zed only gave him a warning shove.
Yet… there’s a difference between calm and contained. And I don’t know which one Zed is.
The post-game high hasn’t worn off.
We’re still riding it — sweaty, half-sore, and full of steak. We drive home from team dinner with the windows cracked, letting the humid Miami night air cut through the leftover heat of the game.
Jace is in my passenger seat, legs kicked out, hoodie on even though it’s probably eighty degrees outside.
“I’m telling you, I’m gonna put fake spiders in Hutch’s skate bag next week,” he says, grinning out the window. “Not real ones. I don’t want to hurt the little guys. But he’ll shit his pants before he realizes they’re fake.”
“Just ’cause he mixed up your gloves with O’Connor’s last game?” I ask.
Jace nods. “O’Connor sweats like a drowning horse. I almost barfed. Revenge is necessary.”
