20. Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
Kevin
Vancouver's top line comes hard. Their center — Vostrikov, six-three, fast hands — tries to split our defense at the blue line. I step up to cut him off.
I'm a half-second late. Immediately in my own head and it's only the first shift.
He blows past me. Aiden has to rotate over, take the man. Clears the puck hard around the boards.
"Get in there, Kev!" he barks during the whistle.
I nod. Tap my stick like I'm locked in.
I'm not locked in.
TV timeout. Liam skates close.
"Dude, where are you?"
I can't look at him, so I just scan the crowd, looking for a ghost. "I'm here."
"You're not. You're half a step behind on everything."
He's right. I know he's right.
Because every time I touch the puck, I'm back on the road in Canada.
Getting absolutely fucked by Calgary, then getting pounded by Vancouver.
That hit in the corner — the sound my shoulder made, that pop deep in the joint, the wave of pain that left me down on the ice for longer than any other hit in my career.
The cross-check to my ribs that left me unable to take a deep breath for days.
Coming home broken.
You're staring, I told her after she took my shirt off.
Assessing injuries, she assured me.
Bourbon. Questionable decisions. The worst night of my life that turned out to be the best.
Another shift begins. We're in our zone, defending their cycle. Their forward has the puck behind our net. I'm playing the pass, trying to cut off the lane.
He fakes. I bite. He wastes no time dishing to his linemate in the slot.
One-timer.
Goal.
1-0 Vancouver.
Red light. Horn. Twelve thousand people groaning. I'm one of them. Fucking hell.
My coverage. My mistake.
I skate back to the bench with my head down. Minus-one on my stat line.
In the locker room, Coach doesn't even look at me. He'd already warned me. No mistakes. One period in and I’ve let him down. He talks to everyone else. Adjustments. Pairings. Playing harder.
I know I'm the problem tonight. I know why. They don't, and I hate that I'm keeping something from them, that I'm already costing us the game.
Get your shit together, St. Clair.
It’s the only thing I can do.
Second period.
For five minutes, I am able to be that guy, to be determined, to be present.
Good gap control. Solid reads. Block a shot — their forward winds up and I drop to one knee, the puck hammering into my shin pad hard enough to make my teeth rattle.
But then, I make a clean breakout pass to Liam that leads to a shot.
As I chase the puck, it starts.
I should've seen it coming.
In my next shift, their defenseman Fjellvik makes a play near the blue line. I'm fighting for position and his stick comes up under my arm — more jab than lift — right into the AC joint.
Pain flashes white.
He gives me a menacing grin as we skate past each other. "Storm's coming, Sunshine."
I bite down on my mouthguard, tasting vinyl and rage.
Same spot. Exact same fucking spot.
Next shift. Whistle's gone and Vostrikov rides his stick through my lower ribs. Ref's back is turned.
"How's that side, Six? Still taped up?"
I feel it now — the target on my back. They remember the road trip. And holy fuck, so do I.
Everything in me wants to turn around. Drop the gloves. Make him eat that smirk.
But I don't.
I hear Coach's voice in my head. I can see Sarah watching from home.
I skate away.
But something red is building inside. And it feels like something I can't control. Maybe I don't even want to.
TV timeout. Aiden skates up. His face is serious.
"Stay square on the wall. They're hunting that side."
"I know."
"Then play smart. Don't give them what they want."
I nod. Try to breathe.
Can't.
We're pressing now. Trying to get one back. Vancouver's playing tight defense, clogging the neutral zone.
Vostrikov wins a leverage battle on the wall, dishes weak-side. Odd-man rush.
Josh makes the save but kicks out a fat rebound.
They bury it.
2-0.
The crowd's getting restless. And there it is. That shift from support to frustration.
I skate back to the bench. Coach doesn't even look at me. Just rolls the lines.
Period ends. Minus-two total.
In the locker room, I carry the frustration of the team and coaches on my shoulders. I deserve it.
I check my phone, then immediately lean my head back and stare at the ceiling. Stupid. Desperate. Not exactly what I need to be doing to show coach and the guys that I hear them loud and clear.
I turn it off, remove the temptation to look at it again.
I head for the tunnel. There's nothing for me in the locker room.
I'm frustrated by what I can't say to her.
I'm angry because I know she’s scared, and I can’t fix it.
I'm searching for something to take it all out on because I can do that instead of using stupid words that won't help anything right now.
I need to leave it all on the ice, and I know it.
Third period starts. We're down 2-0. Still in reach, but we need to find something fast.
I come out aggressive. Maybe too aggressive.
First shift, we blow a line change. Fjellvik gets behind our defense. Breakaway. Bear’s out to challenge, but the angle's wrong.
Goal.
3-0 Vancouver.
The building sags. Some people start heading for the exits. It's one of those nights and I'm the reason. And everyone in here knows it.
We're done. I'm done.
It’s all desperation play now. Pressing. Leaving gaps.
Second shift, I'm reckless, taking the body every chance, finishing checks that don't need finishing. Their winger gets the puck and I line him up, hit him hard into the boards.
He goes down. Gets back up slowly.
"Shit, St. Clair. It's 3-0. Relax."
I don't respond.
Next shift. Battling Vostrikov in the corner. We're tangled up, fighting for the puck.
And then it happens.
He pins me. Drives the shaft flat across my ribs — the ones they've been testing all night. Full weight. Nothing to do with the puck.
Not clean.
Nope. Not tonight.
That red feeling that’s been bubbling up all night inside me answers back.
I've been struggling with my thoughts all night, trying to think of what I could say to Sarah that would make a difference.
I don’t have any of them.
But I have this. A chance to dump all of this fire and energy right here, right now.
I've been looking for words for hours. But in this split-second, I don't need anything but my hands and my body.
My gloves are off before the thought finishes.
I lock his jersey with both fists. There's the feel of the sweat-soaked fabric, the stitching digging into my palms, his heart hammering against my knuckles. Swing.
First shot catches him clean on the jaw. The impact travels up my arm — bone on bone — and my knuckles go hot, then numb, then hot again. His helmet flies down to the ice.
He drops his gloves late. Swings wild. Clips my cheek hard enough that I taste hot blood over my teeth.
We're tangled in white noise — refs yelling, glass rattling behind us, the crowd rising to their feet — but I'm not fighting him.
He's just the fucker who's here.
I hate this piece of shit, but I don’t care about him.
I'm fighting myself.
And all the words I can’t say. This fight is personal.
Another right lands square. His mouthguard flies — the clear curve skipping across red splatters on the ice. His nose. My knuckles. Both our jerseys. We’re both leaking everywhere.
Arms wrap my chest from behind. I think there’s Liam. Doesn't matter. They're pulling, grabbing, yanking. I'm still swinging.
The ref's in my face. "Instigator. Five for fighting. Ten for misconduct. Six, you're done.” Then he turns and points at Vostrikov. “Vancouver, Fourteen, Five for fighting."
I don't argue.
Won't.
Can't.
All that’s left to do is to skate to the tunnel.
Behind me, the crowd's reacting. Some cheering. Some booing.
My teammates tap sticks. Coach yells from the bench.
I don't look back.
In the tunnel, I look down. My knuckles are already swelling. I see split skin on two fingers. There’s blood mixing with sweat.
What the fuck did I just do?
The locker room's empty because the game's still going. The only one not participating is me.
I sit in my stall, head in my hands.
In the distance, I can hear as the PA rattles it off — instigator, five for fighting, ten-minute misconduct at 11:42. I do the math. Not in the last five. Still a target on my back in the morning, though.
My phone's on the shelf in my stall. It remains silent. Turned off. I don't check it.
Can't face her. Can't tell her I just lost my shit on television.
Worse — tomorrow's Ranger's debut, the brand deal that saves the rescue — and I might not be there. DoPS is going to call. I know what's riding on that call, even if Sarah doesn't.
The door opens.
Quinn, with a medical kit in hand. She drops onto the bench beside me.
"I told Dominic I was taking this one,” she says without a shred of judgment in her voice. “Hand."
I give it to her.
"Clock's your friend tonight. It all came before the last five. At least there’s no automatic sit."
A beat of silence lands between us as the TV continues to call out play-by-play.
"DoPS will still call.”
“Keep it vanilla and you might skate tomorrow." She flicks a glance up. "I remember a few of those calls with Liam…"
She shuts the memories down before they have a chance to fully surface. Back to business. Looks like we both have some regrets tonight.
Her fingers are gentle, probing the swollen knuckles, checking for breaks. Every touch hurts; I don't flinch.
"The good news on my end is that you're an idiot, but nothing's broken." The antiseptic bites as she swabs. "Bad news: your ribs hate your choices. I'm sending you for imaging, just in case."
I almost smile despite everything.
She wraps my hand. The athletic tape is tight, supportive.
Long pause. The sound of the game filters through from the monitor.
Then she drops it out there in a measured, matter-of-fact tone, "Sarah texted me."
My head snaps up.
Quinn's watching me. "Asked if you're okay." She's still wrapping. "She saw the fight."
I knew she did. I didn't need Quinn's confirmation.