Their Captain smirks into my face as we both wait for the referee to make his way over with the puck. I grit my teeth to not scowl at him. Zollweg might be a bigoted ass, but that doesn’t belong on the ice. He’s an opponent like any other. And like all of us, he’s eager to stamp his name on this game.
Encouraged by Nicko’s success the Badgers are pushing aggressively, and Zollweg, as their centerpiece, urges them on.
Being down by one point in a game like this is crushing, yes, but we haven’t lost yet. I’m not going to let him through, no matter how hard he pumps his legs or calls for the puck that Baker lost against the defense two seconds ago.
Snow flies up as I come to a sudden stop and dig my skates in. I dip my head against my shoulder for the hit.
Zollweg is going too fast to curve around me; I see the realization flicker through his eyes moments before he crashes into my side.
The impact rattles my teeth. My side is numb from the pain, but I stay on my skates. I flick the puck over to Taylor, then rub my hip to ease the throbbing ache.
At my feet, Zollweg sneers, rucking his chin up at me.
“Still sore from taking all that referee dick that got you here, faggot?” He spits on the ice between us.
My thoughts screech to a halt. Zollweg’s words hit my head like a wrecking ball. On social media it’s one thing, but I would have never expected a word like that to be thrown at me in the middle of a game.
I only just manage to throw him a disgusted look, hoping that it hides my shock over his insult. Heat shoots into my face and a weight drops into my stomach.
“You–” I don’t get to finish my heckle; two outraged shouts—one from behind me, the other from Zollweg’s side—interrupt me.
Both Nicko and Nate rush at the idiot before I can stop either of them.
“You take that back!” Nate shouts, his face contorted with rage. Nicko, too, has blotchy red spots on his cheeks, pulling Zollweg away from me by the back of his jersey.
“Don’t! He isn’t worth it!” I hiss, grabbing Nate around the chest to haul him out of the fray, but he stubbornly stems against me.
“Hey, hey, hey!” the referee cuts in, his hand coming down like a guillotine between us. Several other striped shirts are on their way over. “Cool it.”
“Zollweg called Hart a– he called him–” Nate finally stops fighting me, trying to explain but trailing off, his eyes glued to me.
I take a breath, stemming my hands into my hips. On the other side of the official Nicko and Zollweg are being wrangled apart by two linesmen.
“He called me a fag,” I grit out between my teeth.
The referee looks at me, then over at Zollweg, then back at me. His bushy brows draw together.
“Now, son, that’s a pretty harsh accusation.”
I flex my hands before I look at the referee. “I know. It’s serious to me too.”
“So you’re sticking to your statement.”
Next to me Nate growls. “What the fuck? You fuckingidiot,of course we–”
“Nate!” My warning comes too late; the referee is already trilling his whistle, sending Nate off the ice.
And just like that I’m on my own, and I don’t know any more if this is a battle I want to fight, especially right in the middle of a game like this. Even if I know it’s important to bring up these points, I can’t always be the lone pillar. I don’t want to be the one to cause a fuss every time.
Again, the referee looks at me for a moment that feels as though it might never end. When he blows his whistle again, somehow even shriller this time, I flinch, ducking my head.
The other officials flock over, and I follow Nate back to our bench.
“What happened?” Coach holds the door open for us to step through.
I grit my teeth and wait until the rest of our team has also returned from the ice. I definitely don’t want to say it a third time.
“Zollweg called me the f-word.”
