Punchline (The Games We Play: Season 2)

Chapter 1

ETHAN

“See that fucker? Vincent?” Beside me on the bench, Kepke gestured at number thirty-eight on the opposing team, Max Vincent. “I’m gonna kick his ass before this game is over.”

I grunted in agreement. Dude was seriously asking for a beatdown. He’d just tripped Sven Cedergren—very obviously and very deliberately—and so much smugness radiated off him, it was a genuine miracle it didn’t fog up the glass in the penalty box.

I hated players like that. They didn’t do jack shit except try to injure people.

He almost never scored, and he routinely racked up more penalty minutes every game than he spent on the ice.

Tonight was looking to be one of those nights, too.

We were less than a minute into the second period, and he’d already gone to the box twice in the first—once for a high stick that bloodied Keller’s nose, once for a vicious slash that had sent Magnusson to the locker room.

Kells and Mags would both be okay, though Mags wouldn’t be back for the rest of the game; apparently the trainers were concerned he might’ve injured a tendon.

Kells still had a wad of gauze in his right nostril and his eyes were full of murder.

He might end Vincent before Keps had a chance to, and I didn’t blame either of them.

I restlessly tapped the heel of my skate blade as I waited for my chance to get back in the game. I wasn’t on either power play unit, but still… restless. I hated being on the bench.

Marek Stetina, one of our alternate captains, skated up to the dot in the offensive zone, his expression all business.

As soon as the puck dropped, everyone was in motion.

Marek won the faceoff and passed it to Cedergren.

One of the penalty killers almost intercepted it, but Ceders bullied him out of the way (not hard when you’re a Swede who’s north of six-five) and claimed possession of the puck.

The power play unit set up and started cycling, getting the penalty killers moving left, right, left again.

The impatient crowd roared “Shoot! Shoot!” but I knew what our guys were doing—keep the penalty killers moving to tire them out, and creep closer and closer to the net to keep any of the tired players from breaking away for a line change.

Our five players quickly passed the puck back and forth, in turn making the penalty killers whiplash back and forth. One made a grab for the puck and very nearly got it, but Kells snatched it away.

The penalty killers were definitely getting tired, too. Their movements were slower and they weren’t as precise or sharp. They weren’t as quick to react.

Perfect.

Especially because they’d been so focused on Ceders, Kells, and Olson, they’d lost track of Marek and Frost. They’d both quietly positioned themselves on either side of the goal. Frost was a few feet away on the goalie’s blocker side. Marek was right at the edge of the crease on the stick side.

Ceders held the puck on his stick. He faked like he was going to pass to Olson. Then to Kells. All four of the penalty killers reacted, moving up to anticipate those passes.

And before they could backtrack, he snapped the puck right onto Marek’s stick, and Marek fired it in over the goalie’s pad.

Like the handful of Ace fans in the away-game crowd, all of us on the bench were on our feet and cheering. Marek did a little celly before the rest of the power play unit crushed him in hugs. Then they were heading our way for fist bumps.

Across the ice, the penalty box opened, and Vincent skated out, visibly enraged and not the least bit chastened.

I couldn’t help grinning. We had a spectacular power play, and everyone in the PHL knew it, but his dumb ass still couldn’t resist taking unnecessary penalties.

Thanks to him, we now had a 3-0 lead, and he was exactly as pissed about it as he should’ve been.

Something told me he’d be in the box again before this game was over.

Hopefully after getting his ass handed to him.

If that fucker had been on our team, Coach would’ve benched him for at least the rest of the period. After three costly penalties had dug the team into a hole, he could sit for a while until he cooled off and remembered how to play hockey. I’d seen Coach do it, too.

But as my linemates and I went over the boards for the faceoff, there he was—joining his teammates at center ice.

Great. Maybe Keps would get a chance to kick Vincent’s ass after all.

For the moment, Vincent behaved himself. Like his teammates, he focused on getting possession and getting into our defensive zone. They succeeded, too, especially after Vincent shoulder-checked Keps into the boards. It was a clean hit, and Keps was fine, but it definitely shortened his fuse.

One of Syracuse’s forwards fired a shot at our goal.

Cantwell blocked it, but the rebound got away from him, and Vincent slapped it back on goal.

Cantwell flailed a bit but covered it up.

As most people did, Vincent kept digging away in case the puck was still loose.

Play to the whistle, that was what we were always told, so he and another Syracuse player jabbed and hacked away in search of the puck.

Finally, the whistle blew. Fucking refs.

Of course, as Cantwell was getting up, Vincent took an extra slash at him. Cantwell gave him a perfectly justified shove to get him out of his crease.

And that was when the dumbass really fucked up—he cross-checked Cantwell in the chest, knocking our goalie off-balance and almost off his skates.

Keps might’ve been ready to whoop Vincent’s ass at that point, but he didn’t get the opportunity.

Before Cantwell had even regained his balance, my sticks and gloves were on the ice and I had a fistful of Vincent’s jersey.

I swung at his head and dislodged his helmet.

When I hit him again, the helmet came off, and anger flashed in his eyes as he grabbed his own hadful of my jersey.

He swung me hard enough to one side to send me stumbling, but his grip on my sweater kept me upright.

I balled my fist and swung a haymaker at him, but I misjudged… well, everything, and I hit him uselessly in the chest.

He was far more precise, and the blow to my cheekbone stunned me for a few precious seconds.

When he punched me again, I moved aside enough that he only winged me.

Unfortunately, it was also enough to shift my center of gravity.

My balance wavered, and when I tried to recover, my skates went out from under me like I was a little kid who’d never skated before.

I landed on my ass and back, and then he was on me, and everything went a bit blurry.

The next thing I knew, I was being hauled to my feet by a linesman. Keps and one of my other teammates were screaming at Vincent while a ref tried to keep them apart. The crowd was roaring, or maybe that was the blood pounding in my ears.

Dan, our athletic trainer, appeared beside me with a towel. “Let me have a look at your face.”

“My face? Why do—” But then I realized that wasn’t sweat trickling down my lip or my chin. I wiped at my face with my hand, and sure enough, it was bloody.

“Use the towel, Berns.” Dan shoved it into my hand. “Hold it to your nose.”

I did, which hurt, but at least it meant less of a mess for the ice crew to clean up. Between Kells’s nose and mine, they had their work cut out for them tonight.

Syracuse’s fans booed me as I skated toward the penalty box. Not unexpected. When they switched to cheering, I wasn’t at all surprised to see Vincent coming this way, gesturing for them to get louder.

Yeah, yeah. I knew the drill. Support the home team even when one of the players acts like a complete douchewaffle.

I took my seat in the box. Keps brought me my stick and gloves, and I kept the towel Dan had given me. My nose and lip weren’t bleeding too badly, and my teeth felt fine, so I’d probably be okay once I was out of the box.

The replay started on the screen, and my insides shriveled. Fuck. Really? Really? I’d sworn in the moment that I’d held my own, but watching the fight now…

Oh my God, I thought as the crowd howled with laughter, am I that bad at fighting?

Apparently so, because I looked like a complete idiot, punching feebly at this bigger dude who was whipping me around like a ragdoll.

And then—fuuuck. In the moment, I hadn’t given any thought to how dignified I’d been as I’d fallen, but I resembled a slapstick cartoon character.

My legs went right out from under me, and I dropped unceremoniously on my ass.

The crowd was dying with laughter. I wanted to die from embarrassment.

Mercifully, the replay ended and the crowd hushed, all eyes on the ref who’d skated out in front of the box to announce the penalties.

He clicked on his headset, and his voice echoed through the small arena, “Las Vegas, number sixty-two. Five-minute major penalty for fighting.”

The crowd roared their approval.

Then the ref gestured the other way. “Syracuse, number thirty-eight. Five-minute major for fighting. Two-minute minor for unsportsmanlike conduct. Las Vegas will have a two-minute power play.”

Oh, the fans did not like that. They did not like that one bit. The booing made the whole building vibrate, especially as one of Vincent’s teammates joined him in the box to sit the two-minute minor.

I grimaced behind the towel pressed to my face. Hopefully none of the fans knew what kind of car that ref drove. And was Vincent going for a PIM record this game or something? Though knowing him, this probably wasn’t the worst he’d ever been.

Fucking thug.