Game Misconduct (Scoring Chances #6)
PROLOGUE
THE SEASON PRIOR
Sweat dripped into Tanner Clayton’s eyes and he blinked past the stinging as he batted the puck back and forth behind the Boston Harriers’ net.
They were down three points and the third period was already halfway over. Tanner had to get the puck up the ice and into the offensive zone. On the other side of the blue paint, New York Rockets player Leif Rasmussen narrowed his icy blue eyes, shadowing Tanner’s every move.
Tanner deked to the left, then swept around to the right, passing the puck to his D-partner. But Leif was already there, intercepting it before it could land on Luke Crawford’s stick.
“Too fucking slow, Clayton,” Leif taunted as he spun and fired the disc in one fluid motion, too quick for even Jesse Webber to stop it before it landed in the back of the net.
“Fuck you,” Tanner snapped, his words drowned out by the sound of the goal horn.
Fuck! How could he have been so stupid? That never worked on Leif. He always, always saw through whatever Tanner was trying to do.
Frustrated, he shoved out with his stick, cross-checking Leif, who grunted and elbowed him in the chest. Tanner’s stick went flying to the ice as he shoved Leif. Leif got a grip on Tanner, and they grappled for a moment, neither of them able to get the upper hand.
Tanner was frantically trying to remember some of the tips Luke Crawford had given him about fighting when a referee blew his whistle and dragged him back.
“Did you fucking see that?” Leif hollered as another official pulled him in the opposite direction. “Clayton cross-checked me in the fucking neck!”
Shouting rose around them as guys jostled and pushed and the other officials arrived to calm it down, along with Tanner’s captain, Connor O’Shea.
“Look!” Leif tugged at the collar of his jersey, showing off his “injury” to the ref. “You can still see the fucking mark!” he snapped.
“Oh fuck you. It’s not my fault you’re built like a fucking giraffe,” Tanner sneered, shrugging off the grip of the linesman who was still trying to haul him away. “I was aiming for your shoulders and it’s barely pink! Don’t be such a crybaby.”
Shouts rose up again and Connor’s face grew redder and redder as he argued about the penalty with the refs. But it did no good.
“Number forty-four, five-minute major penalty for the cross-check and a game misconduct,” the referee announced.
“Fuck you, Rasmussen,” Tanner muttered as he skated past him. “This is all your fucking fault anyway.”
“Yeah, nothing’s ever your fault, is it, Clayton?” Leif shouted after him. “There’s always someone else to blame.”
“Like you should fucking talk, asshole!” Tanner shouted over his shoulder as he crossed the ice, heading for the tunnel. He was out for the rest of the game and Coach Hoyt was gonna be pissed.
Tanner stomped down the tunnel and into the locker room where he sat in his stall with a huff. Fuck! The team didn’t need this penalty. It had been a parade in and out of the box all night and the refs were totally fucking biased against the Harriers.
And fine, maybe Tanner shouldn’t have gone that high with his stick but Leif drove him fucking crazy.
Tanner glanced up at the TV monitor that showed the on-ice feed and less than thirty seconds later he watched Leif fly toward the Harriers’ net, pull a slick deke move of his own, slip the puck between Jesse’s goalie pads, and bury it in the back of the net, bringing the score up to 5–1 in the New York Rockets’ favor.
Tanner threw his glove across the carpet where it bounced a few times before landing on the hawk logo.
Fuck Leif Rasmussen.