Chapter 17 #2
Lucky for us—and Vincent—Marek only missed one shift.
He never even went back into the locker room—just sat on the bench and caught his breath, fury simmering in his eyes the entire time.
Before Marek had even made it back out, Vincent struck again, this time sending Keps into the boards at a dangerous angle.
Should’ve been a goddamned boarding penalty, but the refs let it go.
At least they finally called it when he high-sticked Mags. That got us a four-minute power play since Mags’s lip was bleeding, but it also sent Mags to the locker room for stitches. Keps was still on the bench. Now Mags was down.
Marek skated up to me, a gloved hand over his mouth so no one could read his lips. I thought he was going to tell me a set play, but instead he said, “I changed my mind. Kick that fucker’s ass.”
I snorted. “Yeah?”
He nodded. “When he comes out of the box, if we’re still ahead on the scoreboard—make him regret his life’s choices.”
I grinned. “You got it.”
We shared a fist bump.
We were indeed still ahead when Vincent came out of the box. The double minor penalty had given us a chance to score two power play goals in rapid succession; now we were up 5-2 with eight minutes left to play.
And wouldn’t you know it—Vincent couldn’t leave well enough alone. He’d barely stepped onto the ice for his shift when he stuck his stick out to trip Frost, who’d been skating full tilt across the neutral zone with the puck. Frost went flying… and so did my gloves.
Frost probably hadn’t even landed on the ice before I threw my first punch at Vincent’s stupid fucking face.
Vincent dropped his gloves and took a swing at me.
Jake’s lessons had served me well, though, and I managed to both deflect the punch and throw another of my own.
I more or less grazed his jaw, but it was enough to stun him.
I took full advantage and grabbed a handful of his jersey to steady both of us, and then I hit him again.
The crowd was screaming. People banged on the glass and roared their frenzied approval as I landed another hit.
Vincent had recovered his senses and deflected, so I went low this time, hitting his midsection and doubling him over.
Another punch to his gut had him stumbling, and we both nearly went down.
He took another swing at me, clipping my chest protecter.
It wasn’t enough to hurt too much, though it did make my balance wobble.
He straightened to almost his full height, and at some point, he’d also grabbed a fistful of my jersey. He used that to haul me toward him, but I kept my balance.
“Fucking punk,” he muttered over the thunderous crowd.
“Eat a dick,” I replied, and I swung my fist again, connecting with his cheekbone.
The instant I hit him this time, two things happened at once:
We both lost our balance, and pain exploded through my hand and up my arm.
We toppled, and I landed on top of Vincent.
I was distantly aware of the crowd going ballistic, just like I was aware of whistles blowing and Vincent shouting something at me.
Mostly, though, my ears were stuffed with cotton and all my senses zeroed in on the pain on my right hand.
Someone grabbed my arm to haul me up off Vincent. The movement made the pain impossibly worse, and I shouted something I didn’t even understand.
That must’ve caught someone’s attention, because suddenly the ref was steadying my arm, and there were people moving around me. Vincent was up and gone, screaming obscenities at me, the refs, and God knew who else as he was led away to the penalty box.
Dan appeared beside me. “Easy, Berns. Let me have a look.”
I nodded, and I gulped in air as I tried not to throw up.
Dan took one look at my hand and informed the refs I was leaving the ice. Then he was leading me toward the bench, steadying my arm as I skated and he walked.
“Just breathe, kid,” he said. “Keep breathing so you don’t pass out.”
Breathe… don’t pass out… right.
Except passing out sounded really fucking good in that moment because then nothing would hurt.
I didn’t pass out, though, goddammit. Dan led me into a room across from the locker room and sat me down. One of the other trainers started unlacing my skates while Dan inspected my hand.
I peered down to see the damage for myself.
Aww, fuck.
That swelling was not good. Not good at all.
“Did I break it?” I sounded pathetic.
“That’s for the hospital to confirm.” Dan met my gaze, his expression grim. “But if I were a betting man, I’d say yeah, you broke it.”
I closed my eyes and exhaled, my head still swimming and my stomach still threatening to revolt. The other trainer got my skates off. Someone was making noise about summoning the on-site EMTs.
With my uninjured hand—which was shaking a lot more than I expected—I wiped sweat off my face. “Fuck my life.”
“Hey, look on the bright side.” The trainer grinned as he put my skates aside. “You won the fight!”
He was right. When we’d gone down, Vincent had been on the one to land on his back. I was pretty sure there’d been some blood on his face, too.
So, yeah. I’d won the fight.
I’d redeemed myself after that disaster of a fight earlier this season.
But as the EMTs came in to take me to the hospital…
I wasn’t so sure I’d say it was worth it.