Chapter 19 Serena
The last thing I expected tonight was to be this emotionally involved in the game. But here I am, at the start of the third period, on the edge of my seat, more nervous for the outcome of this high-intensity game than I’ve been for anything in a while.
The Hawks and the Sinners are tied, two to two. The game’s been intense, to say the least. Constant jabs, dirty hits, and violence, contributing to the boiling volcano that is soon to erupt.
The refs have called eight penalties on us and only two on them. I agree with their calls, but they also missed a few on the Hawks side that shouldn’t have been passed by.
They’ve been targeting one of the Sinners’ younger guys, Ty Ramirez. He’s insanely good, and he’s only nineteen. Our guys are very protective of him, and the Hawks have made it their mission tonight to get under his skin, but that only gets under everyone else’s too.
Another missed cross-check at the young rookie’s back is the tipping point of the chaos.
Bates is out on the ice, and I knew he’d be fighting this game. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when, especially with the way the Hawks have been playing. Ramirez immediately fights back, gripping his stick with both hands and smacking at the other player’s chest.
Bates is the first one to Ramirez’s defense, ripping the much larger player off him. They’re right in front of the bench, giving me a damn near unobstructed view of the unfolding brawl.
Bates lands a heavy blow into his ribs and another to his face, knocking his mouthguard out of his mouth. The player tries to hit back, only managing to land a weak punch to Bates’s jaw. But Bates only smiles.
The guy’s face is open, ready for the next hit, but Bates waits, hesitating, and a chill runs down my spine. Not because of the violence, but the familiarity of his power and restraint.
He’s not swinging to his full strength or utilizing every opening. Bates is calculated, enacting a plan in which only he knows, just like the masked man who’s been watching me for months.
Suddenly, I can see how easily they are one and the same. The parallels between them are agonizingly clear. There’s been an itch in my brain, something I haven’t understood until this moment.
To me, Bates has been this arrogant, uncontrolled dog that needed obedience training. A player who thinks he’s better than anyone in the league. I viewed him as a self-righteous and annoying brute who only flirted with me for the fun of the game.
But now, it’s like the pieces of my brain that were fuzzy and unclear before are suddenly visible and sliding into place.
Bates is arrogant as hell, yes. And he absolutely thinks he’s better than anyone in the league. But he isn’t just the menacing enforcer I once thought him to be.
He’s more than the violence and the darkness that stirs beneath the surface. He uses his anger and physical strength as a tool in the game as much as he does his stick. He’s far more controlled than I gave him credit for.
He could beat that player until red speckled the ice. I’ve seen him do it before. It used to scare me a little bit. But I appreciate it now more than I ever knew I could. Knowing how strong and merciless he can be and seeing him hold himself back is the most attractive thing I’ve ever witnessed.
It’s what drew me to my masked man in the first place. It was tantalizing, being pulled to something that I shouldn’t. This unknown person invaded every space of my life, and I let them, not completely sure they wouldn’t hurt me.
I gave my trust to someone I didn’t know when I absolutely shouldn’t have. A stranger, a man at that, who left me letters, telling me how obsessed with me he was.
I should’ve called the cops, turned him in.
But I didn’t. Instead, I let him have access to every second of my day with hidden cameras that I didn’t try to find.
I let him into my mind and body, knowing that, at any second, he could snap and hurt me.
That right there was why I fell for him in the first place.
There’s something beautiful about the balance between the capability of violence and the restraint to know when to use it.
That could be said about the sport of hockey itself. Hockey always finds balance, returning to equilibrium. Officials are the peacekeepers, calling the penalties and holding the players accountable. But if they fail, then the players will do it for themselves.
Regardless, the balance finds a way.
Just like it is now.
Another Hawks player slams into Bates, which brings another one of the Sinners over. In seconds, everyone on the ice but the goalies are tied up with another player. But no one drops gloves.
This was a warning to the Hawks, a message to tell them to back off, and if they don’t, then they’ll get to see Bates at his full potential.
It takes a minute, but eventually, they wrangle the penalized players into their penalty boxes, assessing the time they’ll need to serve.
Four of the five players on each team are given two minutes for roughing, but Bates is given a double minor for roughing, given that he started it all.
To be fair, if the officials had seen the original cross-check, none of this would be happening in the first place.
The double minor puts the Hawks on a two-man advantage power play for the next two minutes. Thankfully, our penalty kill is successful, holding them from scoring again during the five-on-four.
The next fourteen minutes do nothing to the score, but the Hawks seem to pull back on tormenting Ramirez, focusing their effort on trying to win.
It gets a bit chippy when our guys crash the net, jabbing their sticks to try to move the puck, but their goalie successfully covers it.
One minute left.
One of the linesmen grabs the puck and readies the face-off in the zone. We win the draw, Kol beating the other player to the puck.
He passes it back between his legs, straight to Bates, who takes it up top to reset. But Casper swings around to the other wing, wide open.
Without hesitation, Bates dishes the puck—a flawless pass—straight toward Casper. He swings his stick back, and right when the puck glides into place, he follows through. But he doesn’t shoot toward the net; he flings it across the slot to Kol.
The goalie doesn’t expect it, and neither do I. I fall for their play just as hard.
This time, Kol doesn’t pass it; he swings hard, driving his stick into the ice. The puck flies toward the net, straight into the massive gap between their goaltender and the post, created by the quick passing.
The lamp lights, glowing red behind the glass, and the arena explodes. Deafening cheers, applause, and shouts ring out all around us as we stand from our feet in celebration with the rest of the audience.
Bates, Casper, and the rest of the guys barrel around Kol before he leads them to the bench, bumping gloves with the rest of their teammates.
There’s only forty-two seconds left on the clock as they set up at center ice for the next puck drop. Everyone nervously settles into their seat, practically tasting the win.
But anything can happen in the blink of an eye, and we’re only up one. They could still possibly tie it up.
The Hawks win the draw, maintaining possession as they gain zone entrance with ease, our players hyper-focused on defense. They pass it all around, desperate to find an opening.
Twenty seconds left.
One of the passes goes astray, hitting the board and taking a weird bounce. It ricochets, traveling only a few inches before one of their players gets ahold of it.
I suck in a gasp. Emil picks his pocket, stealing the puck and dishing it over to Bates. Bates controls it, skating it toward the neutral zone as the final seconds count down.
The horn blares, signaling the end of the period and the end of the game.
“Yes! Woo!” Kerrigan shouts next to me, standing to her feet with me and the rest of the crowd as we cry out in victory.
I didn’t realize she was such a hockey fan. I might have to bring her to some more games.
At center ice, Bates flicks the puck up into the hands of the official with the tip of his blade. His smile takes over his face, eyes bright with excitement and pride as he glides over to the bench, closer to me.
The high of the win flickers for a second, reminding me that I’m still mad at him for what he did. But when Bates looks up at me, his gaze locking on to mine, my anger dissipates for a second.
He’s so giddy and genuine. Seeing him smile like that is a bit intoxicating. It’s interrupting the irritation I should be feeling right now.
I’m still mad. I’m just taking a temporary moment to be happy for the team and my dad.
That’s it.
That’s all.
My dad peeks over his shoulder, glancing up at me.
I wave to him, smiling big. This morning, I called and told him that Kerrigan and I would be attending tonight’s game.
He wants us to come down to his office afterward to give us some merch he picked out for his two girls.
I told him we could meet him after if it was easier, but he insisted.
I could have protested further, but that would’ve only drawn suspicion unless I told him the truth about Bates … which is not happening.
It can’t.
The thought stabs my chest, but I ignore the sensation, focusing instead on leading Kerrigan up the stairs and out of the seating area so we can head down to my dad’s office.
It takes us a couple of minutes to get up to the main hallway that wraps around the entire rink and a couple minutes more to reach the area we need.
The sea of people is tightly packed, a lot like sardines, as I guide us toward an elevator, being guarded by a security member.
I don’t recognize him, but I show him my badge that my dad gave me long ago, and he happily lets me inside, not questioning my friend tagging along.
A moment later, we step into a long hallway.
“So … it was a good game,” she mutters, falling into step beside me.
I cackle.