The Grizzly
Adrian
That. Fucking. Brat.
My body heats with rage as I watch the two guys sitting in the seats I saved for Lex. Getting those tickets was nearly impossible and required me to call in a huge favor from the league managers. I’m so focused on these two fucking idiots that I don’t see Ronan coming until he slams into me. The action grabs the attention of the two guys in her seats, and they cheer loudly at us.
I don’t smile, and within a few seconds, they can’t ignore my expression. Their faces drop, and they exchange a puzzled glance. Ronan slams his hand on my back, laughing loudly and spraying his water bottle against the glass in front of the guys. They laugh again.
He spins to block me from their view.
“Liberty, you better wipe that shitty fucking look off your face and get in the game.” He barks.
Captain Ronan Pierce.
I look around him at the two guys who are no longer facing our direction.
“The game hasn’t started.” I grit out.
He shoves me hard into the bench. I collide with… someone… and drop into a seat. I glare at him as he lowers to sit beside me.
“Do not make me regret helping you get those tickets, man. Focus on the game.” He warns.
A hand on my jaw snaps my attention to the left. Cally reaches across a couple of the guys to gently swipe his hand down my face.
“Yeah, puddin’.” He goads. “Don’t be sad.”
They all laugh, and I stare at the clock on the wall, counting down the seconds.
Three.
Two.
I’m on my feet, reaching for the door to the ice, ripping it open when the coach signals for a change.
One .
I charge onto the ice. The sensation of my legs propelling me forward feels like a drug. The puck is with a forward in a forest green jersey featuring a large Sasquatch on the front. Slap-happy Sasquatches. These names are utterly ridiculous. I take the puck from the opposing team and pass it to Ronan, who sends it sailing into the upper right corner of the net.
We navigate through the first two periods, and I mostly forget about the two guys in her seats. I love this game. I hate social media, but I love the game. Every goal ignites a roar of cheers. In a charity game for a beer league team, there are no team-specific fans; the crowd is a blend of both jerseys. The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the second period, and we head to the changing room.
On the bench, my thoughts drift back to Lex, to the tickets I left for her, and the two fucking numskulls using them. I am deep in thought when a towel hits me in the face; looking up, I see the beat red face of the coach.
“Adrian fucking Liberty. If it wouldn’t be too goddamn much, might you grace us with an iota of your attention?” He booms. “Or do you plan to keep eye fucking those guys next to the bench for the rest of the game?”
Okay, relax.
Since I can’t say that, I mumble, “No, coach.”
“No, what?” He sounds like he’s on the verge of a stroke.
Someone tell this man it’s a fucking beer league charity game.
“No, I do not plan on eye fucking the guys next to the bench.”
From the other side of the room, Cally calls out. “Yeah, he just plans on for real fucking Polka-Roo!”
The room fills with laughter, and the coach screams at us to shut up and get our heads in the game. We’re up 3-1. I’m not sure why he’s so stressed, but cool.
We all rise, heading back for the ice.
Ronan pushes up to walk just behind me. “You’re a fucking weapon out there, man.”
“You complaining?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow at him.
“Nah, man — just don’t do anything that will pull Officer Cally off the roster.” He looks over his shoulder, laughing, but as we reach the bench, he stills, his energy changing.
“Shit…” I hear him say under his breath.
Turning, I follow his gaze and see her going up the stairs toward the nosebleeds. She’s with the girl from the club, who is again wearing a tiny dress that is inappropriate for a cold arena, leaving her thighs bare. She’s covered her short dress with one of our home jerseys; it’s white with a beaver on the front. I don’t even check who the name belongs to on the back.
All I can see is Lex.
The sounds of the game cut out. The chants, the whistles, the sharp scrape of skates on ice—silent. She’s walking up the stairs. The Sasquatch-green jersey drapes against her thighs, but the name on the back sends white-hot fury licking up my spine.
Grizzly.
Greg fucking Grizzly.
Their Team Captain.
What. The. Fuck?
My eyes shift to their bench. To Greg the Grizzly — a stupid fucking nickname that was gifted to this douchebag by social media. He’s talking to his teammates, but his eyes are on her. He gestures toward her, and like fucking clockwork, heads turn.
Watching.
Watching Lex.
Watching what’s mine.
Fuck the game.
Fuck the score.
I’m going to jail tonight.
Lex
“Don’t look now, but I think we’ve been spotted.” Rosie’s tone is way too excited for what she whispers in my ear.
I shift, turning to glance over my shoulder at the team benches. We’re so damn high, but it doesn’t matter; I can see the eyes glued to us. One side is white, the other green. The green side is clearly smiling and laughing with each other, pointing at us. If it were just them, I’d definitely be thrilled. However, the other side doesn’t just stare at us; they glare. Their eyes shift from us to the other team and back.
Rosie bounces beside me, lifting her hand to wave back and forth before blowing kisses toward them. I grab her hands.
“Stop!” I urge.
She doesn’t understand how fucked up this whole situation is.
“Oh, relax, Lex! Look at them! They love us!”
I grab her hand and pull her the rest of the way to our seats, desperate to sit down and hide behind the rest of the crowd. Rosie grumbles, not wanting to block their view. From our seats, I can see Adrian on the bench. He’s facing the other team, and his arms are moving as he yells. Without looking away, I tug on Rosie’s jersey.
“Rose, look at him.”
She looks back and forth before spotting what I’m referring to, letting out another squeal.
“He’s so mad! I told you this sport is intense!”
“I say this with nothing but love,” I turn to face her as I speak. “You need therapy.”
Rosie leans into me as she laughs, her laughter bringing a smirk to my face. She’s always so upbeat and carefree. The buzzer sounds, and the third period begins. I cuddle into Rosie to keep warm, trying my best to focus on the game. The score is 3-1 for the Beavers, and the other team seems to be pushing harder. The players collide more frequently, sending gloves and sticks flying around the ice. I do my best to avoid the bench, to avoid looking toward Adrian. My skin crawls as if covered in ants. I know he’s watching us.
A foghorn startles me, and I realize I must have been daydreaming—perhaps about a warmer place. I see the score change to 3-2 as Rosie leaps from her seat, screaming with joy. She hoots and claps with those around us while I remain seated, enjoying the barrier their bodies create around me. As she settles back down, she slaps my leg.
“Ooh! #55 is back on the ice!”
Her neon pink nails glow as she gestures toward the ice. Adrian moves slowly, seeming lazy and disinterested, which feels out of place. The action swirls around him, but his gaze is fixed on our section as he glides forward, one skate after the other. A slow burn of adrenaline spreads through me, my pulse thrumming in response. He doesn’t notice the puck soar past him, and I see another player on the team throw their arms up in frustration.
Gradually, his gloved hand lifts— what is he doing?
It doesn’t stop, rising higher and higher until his index finger extends, pointing directly at me. I feel my lungs seize and struggle to take a full breath. Rosie glances at me and then back at the deranged lunatic on the ice. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her mouth open and close, as if she wants to say something but can’t find the words. I’m in the same situation, completely speechless.
We sit in stunned silence for what feels like minutes when suddenly a player in a green jersey side-swipes Adrian, knocking him off his feet. I gasp, and my hand flies to my mouth. I sit up straight, leaning in closer.
Is he okay?
The hit didn’t seem hard, but I don’t think I take another breath until I watch him climb back to his feet. He looks over his shoulder and then quickly back at us before spinning around and pushing toward the player who hit him. As he moves with lethal precision, gaining speed with each push of his skates, he drops his stick and shucks off his gloves. I look at the other player, catching a glimpse of the back of the green jersey. The Grizz.
It all happens so quickly. One minute, Adrian is near the glass at our end of the rink. The next, he appears behind Greg, who has his back to Adrian. Subconsciously, I rise to my feet, and Rosie follows suit. We’re the only ones standing, and the seats around us turn to stare at us. The hit is hard, so much harder than the earlier one Rosie commented on. It’s so hard that both Adrian’s and Greg’s feet lift clear off the ice as they crash into the boards; Greg’s helmet comes loose and slides behind the net.
Rosie gasps, and I realize it’s been ages since I last took a breath. The ensuing fight is sheer chaos. Every player from the Sasquatches rushes onto the ice, charging straight at Adrian, who has regained his footing and is standing over Greg, glaring down at him. I open my mouth to scream at him to watch out when he turns, delivering a furious punch to the face of the first player who reaches him.
The referees blow their whistles relentlessly. Again and again, the high-pitched shriek pierces through the growing roar of the crowd. More people are starting to stand, cheering for the fight. Players collide with one another, with Adrian at the center of the storm, his arms recoiling repeatedly before striking anyone near him. At some point, I realize the marks on the ice are blood, and my stomach churns.
“Shit,” Rosie breathes beside me.
My nails dig into my palms as a referee tries to get between him and another player. The entire crowd goes momentarily silent before emitting a collective gasp when he rears back and punches the referee, sending him careening backward. Holy Fuck . That’s when the whole place goes dark, as if the power to the arena has been cut. Rosie and I cling to each other as screams erupt from the crowd. When the lights flick back on a moment later, there are four referees and two men in suits in the middle of the ice, and they look furious.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” one of the refs booms over the loudspeaker. “This is completely unacceptable. Player #55, Adrian Liberty - you are suspended indefinitely, pending a review by the league. Every other player on the ice receives a 5-minute penalty. This is beer league hockey, guys. Relax.”
The players filter off the ice, some assisting others in getting to the bench. A voice crackles over the speakers, informing us that the Zamboni will make another sweep of the ice to clear the blood. I’m still standing, chilled to the bone, staring wide-eyed at the ice when Rosie finally speaks.
“I guess the jersey was a bad idea.”