Chapter Eight – Torin
Of course, I’m sitting in the penalty box with a fucking dislocated thumb.
Should I wave the medic over? Yes.
Do I? Fuck no.
I don’t even need to look to know it’s out again. I can absolutely feel it — that pesky, stabbing pain radiating into my wrist.
Honestly, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve knocked the thing out of position. Practically a party trick at this point. Any other hockey player would be crying, screaming for the medic, hopping around like they lost an arm.
Me? Nah. I ain’t no crybaby.
I’ve endured a whole lot worse. I mean, picture being shot in the thigh during an Army take-down practice and still having to complete the course.
A crooked thumb? Please.
Why am I in the penalty box? Well, I broke a panel in anger after one of the Redwood Rangers threw a cheap shot in my direction.
It got me penalized, of course.
It’s a great view, though. I get to watch Dylan and the other players work their magic out on the ice — razor-sharp, ultra-concentrated, skating like it’s in their DNA.
Ah, Dylan must sense I’m watching him. He turns around and catches me staring. He offers a nod, and I mirror him.
There’s a sickening, hollow clunk as I grind my palm against the base of my thumb. The bone pops back in with a snap, the pressure vanishing as suddenly as it arrived. The skin already beginning to bruise.
The sensation feels disgusting, but the relief is immediate.
Easy. Like snapping two LEGO pieces back together.
Suddenly, a tapping noise to the right of me registers. I don’t even want to look. I know what I’m going to see. Women. Puck bunnies. A whole group of them, like seagulls flying down at a beachside picnic. Of course, I brush them off, but it makes them want to go all out.
For the love of God.
Can I not just exist for two minutes without being eyeballed?
It’s like the more I don’t give a flying fuck, the more they hover.
Ego boost? A little.
Annoying? Always.
But also . . . kindly fuck off.
I don’t really care about playing along and pretending to care about women’s zodiac signs or how they’ve always been into hockey players.
I’m not their Roman Empire.
The thing is, the men are just as rowdy. They’re screaming at me through the glass, trying to coach me behind a fragile barrier of ego and a half-consumed dog in one hand.
I’ve been playing hockey since I was seven, left for the Army at twenty, came back needing something to take my mind off the shit I saw. Now? I’m thirty and take the game seriously.
But sure, Gary, who has a bald head and a beer belly sitting in row four, remind me once more how to play. I fucking dare you, buddy.
Suddenly, the ref’s sharp whistle blows, and I check out the clock. Oh yeah, my minutes are up.
I put my gloves back on, push up off the bench, shake out the ache in my hand, smirking to myself. “Let’s go!”
The cold hits me in the face the moment I slide back onto the ice, but I barely feel the chill. Could I be at home working on my truck? Yes. But hell, I’ve been waiting a while to fuck up some Redwood Rangers.
My thumb aches as I clench my stick tightly, the tape bites into my gloves. My skates dig into the ice when I push off, my entire body tense and ready to explode forward.
Fucking Rangers.
They play dirty, always have and always will. And today? They’re going all out.
The puck is zipping around, the boards rattling from all the blows, and I can feel adrenaline at the back of my throat. It’s this intensely sharp, metallic buzz.
I witness their defenseman slam Dylan against the glass — his helmet rebounding back for a moment, and I can see his teeth through the look of pain. My knuckles crack in my gloves, and I drive forward.
So they want to play rough, huh?
Fine. Fuck them!
The next faceoff is about to happen, so I skate up the line, my eyes squarely on the other center. He’s young and cocky, chattering away even before the puck is on the ice. I can’t hear what he’s saying — not that I give a crap. That smirk, though, tells the story.
The ref drops the puck.
I spring forward, pushing his stick aside and shouldering him in the ribs. I hear a crunchy snap, like dead wood snapping when you push it too intensely.
Now, I’m focused, feeling my flow.
The crowd erupts, but to me, it’s all just noise. If anything, it makes me clench my jaw harder.
Suddenly, I feel another player’s skate knock into mine, and I’m prepping to break it, but I spring back fast — even faster than I have to — and pass the puck to Dylan before the jerk even knows it occurred.
He’s flying down the ice like a bullet, and I glance back to look at the Rangers bench. There’s already one of their enforcers on his feet, his eyes focused on me like I’m on his target list.
Come on, big boy.
I’ve been waiting all fucking night to put someone on their ass. I skate hard and quick, and ice sprays everywhere, my whole body tense like a live wire.
The puck zips past me to where the net is — Dylan has scored — and the buzzer sounds, the crowd is going wild. Dylan breaks out his signature move — yep, the moonwalk.
He’s skating as if he’s Michael Jackson, smooth and confident, even adding a little shoulder shake for kicks. All the girls in the stands are completely losing their minds.
And Dylan? Loving every second of it. Romeo on ice.
But it’s too soon to start cheering. I glance over to our goal to find Cal is hunched forward in the crease, celebrating our goal with his own little shimmy and a massive smile. He’s completely in the zone, just doing his thing. And then—
SMACK.
One of the Redwood Rangers just knocked into him: no tricks, no nothing, just a straight-up shoulder block to shake him up and send a message.
Cal stumbles and crashes against the post.
My vision blurs for a second. Crowd noise seems to recede, fuzzy with this wave of anger washing over me.
My jaw feels like it’s a steel cable wound to the point of snapping.
The edge of my tongue gets caught in the shift of my teeth.
Instantly, a metallic taste begins to pool in the back of my throat.
Hell fucking no.
My gloves hit the ice before I can even look back at my team.
All I can see is red. “Oh, it’s go time, you son of a bitch.”
Two Redwood Rangers linger around the net, probably quite pleased with their little stunt. One of them twirls around, mouth agape to say something — perhaps to brag, but truth is, I don’t care, and I’m already on to the bastard.
I hear Dylan shouting behind me, something along the lines of “Torin! No, don’t—” but I’m already at one of the Rangers, not actually able to catch the rest because my fist just connected with this one’s helmet.
“Taking shots at our goalie,” I seethe, punching hard. “Try it again. I fucking dare you.”
My hand makes contact again.
And again.
Pop. A sickening pain vibrates through my hand as the thumb dislodges. I don’t even flinch. My knuckles are on fire, stinging like hell.
Crimson flashes across my hand, bright against the other guy’s white and ruby jersey.
Blood. Mine. Oh well.
The second guy shoves me, and I bark at him like a mad dog, rage welling up within me.
“You want to mess around with our goalie? Taking cheap shots,” I say through gritted teeth.
The refs are shouting, the crowd is cheering, whistles blowing like sirens, but it’s too late.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see fists, green and ruby jerseys all around, one of our men getting right in the face of another Ranger, his jaw jabbing a mile a minute. “My grandma hits harder than that!”
I’m drenched with sweat, and it’s scorching my eyes. My heart’s pounding so hard, it’s lodged deep in my throat. Each punch from the Ranger pounds my ribs, hands, and jaw with thunder, but I simply keep going. “Come on, asshole!”
Mama didn’t raise no quitter.
Despite the chaos unfolding, I glimpse Cal trying to push his way in. He’s wearing his helmet but has abandoned the gloves — he looks super psyched to be a part of the fight. But before he can have his moment, the referee grabs him around the collar, pulling him away.
Good.
Got to keep him out of this situation. Plus, he’s our best goalie.
The fighting is my responsibility, and I’m not leaving this unfinished, not until someone falls on the ice. And hell, it’s not going to be me.