Chapter 15 #2
“Hockey nepo baby bitch.” He spits each word at me and then takes his stick in both hands and cross-checks me across the chest.
The adrenaline coursing through my body acts as a pain blocker so I hardly feel his stick smack across my collarbone. The
impact jerks me back, but I’m quick to step up on him. All my frustration comes to a breaking point, and I can’t skate away.
I drop my gloves and lunge for his jersey before I can second-guess myself. It’s been a while since I’ve fought anyone, but
today has me fired up enough to try. There isn’t enough time to be intimidated by the fact that this guy’s main purpose on
the ice is to throw his body around in a human sacrifice for his team. I know I can hold my own against a fourth-line guy—I
have been all night.
Our helmets come loose in the tussle. He gets me in the jaw with a right hook and I taste hot copper.
As if I’ve been hit with the defibrillator, electricity shoots through my body.
Charged up, I catch him on the nose with a hard left—southpaw surprise.
He wasn’t ready for it. They’re never ready for a left.
He’s got tears in his eyes from the blow.
The crowd—which spent the majority of this game quiet and groaning in their seats—is alive. It’s louder in here than it was
after Andy’s lone power-play goal.
This guy—whose name was likely pressed on his jersey last week when he was called up from whatever small-town American minor
league team he came from—lands another, this time on my cheekbone. It will be a nice black eye by morning. The tender flesh
of my cheek throbs instantly.
I smile because it feels good—nice and wide the way Olivia likes. My teeth coated in blood add to the intensity. The guy looks
up at me and his flared face softens. I cock a right this time and catch him in his jaw. He drops before I retrieve my fist.
I might be a hockey nepo baby, but I still punch switch.
I fan my arms up and down to the chanting crowd as the ref ushers me off the ice. I’m missing my elbow pads, helmet, stick,
gloves, and a few other pieces of equipment, but I don’t care. With blood still spilling from my mouth soaking into the collar
of my jersey, I can’t help but laugh. From the locker room, I watch the guys rally a comeback in the last four minutes of
regulation. We sneak out of that game with a three-two victory.
The first thing I do when I leave the locker room is check the results of —any fighter who says they don’t is lying.
So far, the polls have me winning tonight’s fight with 99 percent of the vote.
I screenshot the results as I’m about to head to the underground parking garage.
Before I get too far through the underground concourse, the sound of sneakers squeaking against the slick concrete gets my attention.
It’s Olivia with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder.
She sees me and quickly tosses the bag like a sack of potatoes into a random closet.
It crashes down with a heavy thud like my KO tonight.
“What are you doing down here?” I extend my arms to welcome her with a hug. She looks around before walking into my embrace,
tense and reluctant, like she’s hugging a creepy uncle. Her hair tickles my cheek and I inhale, anticipating a whiff of sugary
donuts, but she smells as beachy as ever. She stands in my arms like a plastic doll. This is probably weird for her because
technically she’s still at work. I don’t want to get her in trouble, so I back off quickly, dropping my arms and putting some
distance between us.
“Finishing up my shift,” she says, petting the ends of her hair.
A couple guys pass by on their way out. We all share a quick mumbling of hellos and goodbyes.
“Fels-Naptha should get that banana milk out of your suit,” she says sympathetically, pointing to the now-dried milk stain.
“How do you know it’s banana milk?” It’s not overly visible now that it’s dry. Did the social media admin get a clip of the
accident and post it online? I swear they’ve got hidden cameras rigged all over this place.
Her eyes go wide and her mouth agape, but she quickly fixes her face. “I . . . I . . .” she stutters. “I can smell it from
here. Banana is very pungent. It’s a Korean drink, right?”
It hurts to nod my head. “I used to drink them as a kid, and it somehow became a part of my pregame routine. Ended up wearing
most of the drink tonight.” When I take a sip of the Gatorade in hand, the liquid stings the cut inside my mouth. I wince.
“Is that what threw you off tonight?” She touches her cheek in the same spot where I’ve got a bruise forming, looking at me like you look at a maimed animal—sympathetic and cautious.
“You should see the other guy.” I smile, rubbing my thumb along my fat lip.
“I did. I saw the replay of you beating him up.” She laughs softly as she tucks a sheet of hair behind her ear. “Didn’t know
you had that in you.”
Our eyes lock in the quiet hallway and she reaches up to touch my cheekbone, but I intercept her hand and grab it firmly in
mine. I’m feeling reckless tonight.
Still buzzing with adrenaline, I ask, “Want to get out of here with me?”
Without giving it a second thought, she nods.