Chapter 13
TAYLOR
By some miracle, I could still concentrate on hockey the next night. Though I could feel everything Vasily and I had done—and God knew he could probably feel plenty too—my focus was sharp. So was his.
Hell, maybe we could do this without fucking up our game.
That being said, if the Orcas ended up beating Winnipeg tonight, it would be by the skin of our teeth.
They’d been on a so-so streak lately, winning one or two games, then losing one or two.
In just half a season, they’d racked up more penalty minutes than the Orcas did this season and last season combined .
Tonight promised to be a hell of a fight, that was for sure.
Possibly with some literal fighting, too.
“Holy shit, these guys are scrappy,” Brown muttered as we sat on the bench during the first period.
“No kidding.” I squirted some water into my mouth, and we kept watching one of their defensemen antagonizing Nix. “Dude’s gonna get his ass kicked.”
“And the refs will give us the penalty,” Brody grumbled.
I rolled my eyes. Wasn’t that the truth.
Lucky for us, Nix kept a cool head. As my line went out, though, he was heading back for the bench and growled, “Gonna lay that fucker out, I swear to God.”
“Don’t let him draw a retaliation penalty,” I told him. “Their power play is better than our penalty kill.”
“Fuck!” he shouted.
Yeah. I agreed.
The game continued like that, and the refs were apparently not interested in adding to Winnipeg’s penalty minutes.
While we had a revolving door on our box for the softest of soft penalties, Winnipeg still had zero minutes.
And it wasn’t like they were playing clean tonight; the refs just weren’t calling anything.
Slashing? No whistle. Tripping? No call.
Crashing our net and sending Hoskins sprawling? Nothing.
Beside me on the bench during the second, Vasily muttered a string of what I assumed was Russian curses. “What do these assholes have to do to get a penalty?” He flailed a gloved hand. “Shiv someone?”
“Don’t give them any ideas,” I said.
Cams laughed dryly. Vasily gave a quiet huff that was in the ballpark of a laugh. I didn’t really blame him—I was getting pissed, too.
I glanced up at the scoreboard, which brought my blood pressure down a bit.
We were up 4-0. They were probably trying to antagonize us so we’d get pissed off and focus on retribution instead of hockey; not exactly an uncommon strategy.
Once our concentration was broken, they’d go on the offense and score.
I elbowed Vasily to get his attention and told him what I was thinking. He quirked his lips for a moment, then nodded. Turning to me, he said, “Maybe we should keep scoring so they can be the ones who are pissed off.”
I grinned. So did he. A little shiver went up my spine, and I let myself imagine for a few seconds what we might do next time we were alone.
Then I returned my attention to the game at hand. If we were going to do this, we had to be able to concentrate on hockey without distracting each other. Especially on a night when the other team was trying their level best to distract us.
We passed our thoughts down the line to our teammates—don’t take the bait, just focus on hockey—and there were nods up and down the bench.
It would be hard, because it was never easy to play through someone trying to crack your concentration, but we could do this.
Even if we ended up losing, it wouldn’t be because we let them throw us off our game.
Shortly after that, I went out for my shift with Vasily and Cams. Winnipeg’s boys were still bound and determined to get under our skin, too, and the refs clearly still didn’t give a shit.
One blatantly tripped me right in front of a ref and a linesman.
There was a whistle, but only because I’d been offside.
No penalty for the trip, because of course not.
Smoke started curling out of Vasily’s ears. I skated up beside him. “Let it go.”
He turned furious eyes on me. “They can’t just get away with?—”
“The refs aren’t going to do anything,” I said. “But if you lose your cool, you’re going to end up in the box.” I nudged him with my elbow. “Take your anger out on the back of their net.”
His jaw worked, but then he pushed out a breath and nodded. “You’re right. You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.” I winked. “Glad you’re learning that early on.”
Just as I’d hoped, that made him laugh. He rolled his eyes, and we joined our teammates for the faceoff.
Vasily must’ve taken my words to heart, too, because the puck had barely dropped before he snatched it away, bullied his way past three Winnipeg players, and slammed it into the back of their net.
His shout of triumph gave me goose bumps beneath my gear.
Fuck yeah. He was focused, and what could I say? He was hot when he was angry.
Now Winnipeg was even more pissed, and they cranked up the aggression. Coach Marks was apoplectic, screaming at the refs to “fucking call a penalty once in a goddamned while.” They threatened to eject him… and then promptly called a penalty on us .
That penalty resulted in a goal against, but we were still up 5-1. As frustrated as we all were, we kept our heads together. Kept pushing. Kept playing our game and refusing to take their bait.
And then…
It probably happened in the blink of an eye, but it seemed to play out in slow motion in front of me.
In the same moment a Winnipeg player grabbed the back of Vasily’s collar, he knocked his skate into Vasily’s. I watched in helpless horror as Vasily’s legs went out from under him and he fell back, landing hard on his shoulder.
Panic and fury zipped through me like a pair of adrenaline-coated lightning bolts.
And that was before I saw the grimace on Vasily’s face.
As he curled forward to grab…
Oh no.
His knee.
His right knee.
Before Vasily’s hand had even touched his own leg, my temper snapped. I got to that asshole who’d taken him down before the refs did, and I didn’t even remember throwing off my gloves before I threw a bare-fisted punch into his stupid fucking face.
We brawled, and we brawled hard. Fists flew. Hands on my arms tried to haul me away from him—I don’t even know if they were refs or teammates—but I shook them off and went for him again.
He was ready for me. Fists were flying again, and we went down, and then?—
Oh. Shit.
The crunch seemed to echo through my skull a heartbeat before pain exploded up the side of my face. I instantly tasted copper, and when I tried to shout, the pain got worse—I couldn’t move my jaw.
That wasn’t good.
There was chaos around me. An EMT was over me almost immediately, which had me confused for a moment.
Had I completely lost track of time? But then, through the red haze of pain, I remembered Vasily going down, and—fuck, the EMTs must’ve already come out for him, which meant he was hurt. Like, really hurt.
I tried to say his name, tried to ask about him, but the attempt at speaking had my vision clouding over with red. Holy fuck, my mouth hurt. My face hurt. My whole damn skull hurt.
“Wils,” Ryan said. “Look at me. Look at me , Taylor.”
I stilled, then blinked a few times and found the trainer staring down at me beside the EMT.
“Don’t try to move your jaw, okay?” he said. “We’re going to stabilize it as best we can, and it’s probably going to hurt.”
I wanted to say it already fucking hurt, but that meant talking. Never mind.
They did… I don’t know, something to stabilize my jaw and my neck.
All I knew was it hurt like hell, and even when they stopped, it was seriously uncomfortable.
And then, like the sadistic assholes they were, they helped me to my feet.
My vision swam and my balance was gone. Two of my teammates appeared on either side of me, and with my arms slung around their shoulders, I was able to stay upright as they guided me toward the Zamboni gate.
From there, I leaned on Ryan and the EMT.
Someone had me lift one skate, then the other. Blade covers, probably.
That was when it fully registered in my cloudy brain that I was going to the hospital. Nobody gave a fuck if I damaged my blades at this point, but the covers would keep the EMTs and emergency room staff from cutting themselves.
Hospitals sucked, but at least now I’d get to lie down. There was always a stretcher nearby.
But they didn’t put me on a stretcher. They just walked me out, walked me for what seemed like miles, until we finally reached an ambulance. Still no stretcher. And the EMT had me sit on the bench along the side.
I was about to ask if I could lie across the bench when rattling wheels turned my head, and my heart jumped into my throat.
Vasily.
He looked absolutely miserable. His right leg was splinted, wrapped, taped, and probably held in place by concrete and rebar or something. Oh no. How bad was he hurt?
The medics pushed the stretcher into the ambulance and locked it in place. One joined me on the bench. The other went around to the driver seat.
I took Vasily’s hand. I wanted to say something reassuring, but my head was still swimming from the pain in my face, and I couldn’t move my jaw anyway. So, I settled for just squeezing his hand.
He looked up at me, eyes full of pain and confusion, then surprise, then concern. “Shit. Taylor. Are you okay?”
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even nod, so I just squeezed his hand.
Right then, Ryan got in, which made the ambulance that much more crowded.
“Uh,” the EMT who’d brought me in scowled. “Are you?—”
“Translator,” Ryan said simply, and gestured at Vasily.
The EMT still scowled, but he nodded, apparently grudgingly accepting that Ryan needed to come along.
I was confused for a moment. Vasily was fluent in English.