Our goalie reflexively ducks his head, and the puck goes flying into the corner.
“That’s how it’s done!” Van der Hoff crows as he skates around the net for his victory lap, shaving past close enough to spray me with snow.
I grit my teeth and clutch my stick tightly. It’d be so easy to just move it an inch and make him stumble over the blade. Make him eat his fucking words. Instead, I move over toward my D-man who’s still down, letting my stick fall away so I can grab Taylor’s arm to pull him up.
Across the ice, the Badgers are celebrating, though their hero hasn’t joined them. Van der Hoff rather squawks at the enraged green-clad fans behind the plexiglass. When they howl and rage, he lifts a hand to his ear, spurring them on.
“Seriously? Could he try harder to be annoying?” our goalie complains, growling and throwing his water bottle back into his net.
“Guess he needs to compensate for his tinystick,” I say, loud enough for Van der Hoff to hear as well. My eyes follow him on his way back to his own half. I have to crane my neck, but I catch how Van der Hoff kicks my abandoned stick further down the ice, then gives it a hard stomp.
When I go to pick it up, the top part dangles limply.
“What the fuck?!” I don’t know when I made it across the ice, but one moment I was staring at my broken stick and the next I’m squeezing fistfuls of bunched up orange jersey.
Green eyes flare up at me. “Now oursticksmatch, Hart!”
“You–!” I wish I could think of an insult strong enough to give voice to all my anger. He parades around, mocking me like he doesn’t know how fucking hard I’m working. Like the wins he got playing on my team didn’t build him back from the pathetic wreck he was two months ago.
That’s what I really want to throw into his face: that he would still be sitting on the sidelines, moaning about not getting to play, if he hadn’t broken however many rules just to get an ego boost.
I don’t get the words out though; my fist will have to do. Van der Hoff dodges my first swing, but my speed knocks both of us over. His helmet smacks into the ice.
My knees hit it just as hard as I fall over him. I barely feel it, already pushing myself up with one hand. The other is being shoved away by Van der Hoff as he struggles to get free. One of his knees catches me in my stomach, but I ignore it in favor of landing a right hook—even if it means toppling over again.
Van der Hoff gives an angry shout as he surges up. Pain explodes across my mouth as his helmet smashes against it. Half-blind I push him back down, holding my arm over his chest.
I don’t see my teammates coming until one of them pulls me away.
“That’s enough!”
“I’m not done with this asshole!” I yell, stemming myself against the hold. There’s too much anger sizzling under my skin.
Van der Hoff isn’t any different. A linesman is hauling him away over to the Badger’s side. He’s struggling just as much as I am, green eyes blazing across the court.
My elbow catches the guy holding me in the face, and he stumbles backward. I still don’t care; all I know is that I have to get free to get to Nicko and–
“What the fuck are you doing, boy?!” Coach’s voice cuts through the noise like a hot knife through butter.
I freeze on the spot, staring across the ice to our box, where I can make out the disbelief on my teammates’ faces as well as the mix of anger and disappointment that draws deep lines into Coach’s forehead.
I turn away before my eyes find Nate, shame clogging up my throat.
The referee chooses that moment to send me to the sin bin. I slump down as soon as I get there, refusing to look anywhere else except at the ground right in front of my skates. It’s scuffed up, with various cuts and marks crisscrossing despite the whole arena being brand new. My mouth is still throbbing where Van der Hoff bashed his head against it.
The ice is empty for several minutes, maybe hours, I can’t be sure. The arena doesn’t stop buzzing with noise, only hushing when the referee skates to center ice. I just barely raise my head, biting my tongue as I watch his arms move.
The announcement echoes in my pounding head.
“Number 48, St. Bernard’s Bats and number 16, Bonham Tech Badgers, both Game Misconduct Penalty for Fighting.” A groan goes through the ranks, and I can sympathize. None of this would have happened if Van der Hoff hadn’t run his mouth.
I take a deep breath, then I push myself up from the narrow bench in the penalty box, careful to not look my replacement in the eye as he comes over to sit out the rest of the penalty.
For me it’s game over.
A linesman herds me into the tunnel, away from all the noise and excitement. Away from the game. Not entirely away fromVan der Hoff, though, because I hear him argue with his own escort behind me.
“That’s bullshit! I didn’t even start it!”
