Grizz (New York Vipers #1)

Grizz

They say the game slows down when you’re in the zone.

Mine doesn’t.

It speeds up.

Skates cut into the ice. My lungs burn, but the adrenaline makes it feel like ecstasy instead of pain. I’ve got the puck and I know the guy on my tail is a rookie, legs too long, instincts too green. He’s guessing and I’m not.

I fake a pass to my left winger, Deacon Campbell.

The defenseman on Philly bites hard and it’s a rookie mistake.

I pivot, cut right, and my stick readies as I cock my wrists, snapping the puck.

The net’s wide open and the goalie’s gone sprawling.

I don’t hesitate, rifling a shot top shelf, tickling the twine, the best feeling for a hockey player at any level.

My second goal of the night and the crowd roars, unhinged. Absolutely electric. Noise so visceral it vibrates and rattles through the boards, up the glass, and straight into your bones. Vipers fans from ice-level to the rafters are on their feet, fists pumping, beers sloshing, screaming my name.

“GRIZZ! GRIZZ! GRIZZ!”

Kids in face paint pound the glass. Grown men wearing my jersey are hoarse from yelling. A woman in the fourth row jumps up and down, holding a homemade sign that says #GRIZZMODE. Another fan a few rows over holds one up that reads LET THE BEAST ROAM.

I coast along the glass, eyes scanning the raucous crowd as they cheer me on, flashing my million-dollar smile. My teammates are pounding the boards with their sticks, screaming my name too.

But I barely hear them.

I’m in that place—the sweet spot between chaos and control—and I fucking live for this shit.

I skate back to the bench as though I own the rink. Hell, as far as I’m concerned, I own all of New York City.

And for tonight, I really do.

Coach Carlin’s jaw is a granite slab. He’s fighting to mask his satisfaction and losing badly.

Mid-fifties, a former enforcer who collected bruises the way some men collect one-night stands, Carlin wears a perpetual five o’clock shadow and a scowl that survives even victories.

His trademark beige suit hangs on his stocky frame.

Game days are the few times he swaps his track pants and lanyard for an outfit resembling respectability.

The only colorful thing about him is his vocabulary when I screw up.

“You just had to drop the elbow on 25, huh?” he says as I hop over the boards and slide onto the bench.

I grin around my mouth guard. “He tried to take my head off in the second period. What’d you want me to do, offer him a juice box?”

“You’re gonna get suspended. Again.”

“We’re leading by two,” I shoot back as I grab a water bottle and squirt it into my mouth, then spit some back onto the ice. “You want clean or you want goals and wins?”

Coach doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t bench me either.

The third period ticks down. We’re still up by two, but Philly’s playing desperate. Slashing sticks. Late hits. Cheap shots after whistles. I can feel the tension in the frigid air of the arena.

It’s early October, just about a month into the season, the time when everyone’s still out to prove they’re top dog and tempers burn hot. We’re all highly combustible after the long summer we had to endure since we were knocked out of the playoffs early last season.

Coach gives me a look like he’s debating whether I’m a weapon or a liability. He sends me back out, anyway.

“Keep your head, Grizz. Nothing stupid out there,” he shouts as I jump over the boards onto the ice.

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” I snap back.

I prepare for the face-off in our zone, crouching low, tapping my stick twice on the ice.

To my left is our winger, Tanner Wylie. This is the third season we’ve played together, and we’ve been inseparable as line mates since he arrived in a trade from Chicago.

He knows where I am on the ice at all times and vice versa.

The Philly center stares me down, trying to look tougher than he is. We both know how this is going to end.

I win it clean and direct it over to Tanner before taking off like a slingshot, cutting across center ice with blinding speed. He threads it back to me on the fly and I catch it, burning past their defense, all open ice and forward momentum.

Then I see him… number 25, Wiggins. He’s got a gnarly beard and a missing front tooth. He’s the same bastard who threw that high hit on me, a transgression that I can’t ignore. He’s coming for me again and this time he doesn’t care about the puck at all, just my head.

Shoulders down. Ugly intent written all over his face.

I cut hard, shift the puck to my backhand, but he clips me high and late. Not enough to drop me, but enough to rattle my cage.

No call, of course.

I spin out, regain my footing, and the puck stays with me.

It always does. But something in me snaps.

I feel that surge of aggression, the same one that’s raced through me since I started playing as a five-year-old on the frozen ponds of rural Saskatchewan.

They said it would hold me back, but I call it survival.

That edge has always kept me on top. Unpredictability reigns supreme on the ice and I’m the king of it.

I stop skating, drop my gloves mid-stride and charge. I can practically hear Coach groan in protest from the bench. I slam into Wiggins, sending both of us into the boards. My fist is already cocked before he knows what’s happening.

One jab. Then another. Then a third.

Quick and surgical, all torque fueled by bad intentions.

I feel the pop of knuckles against helmet, then flesh.

The third one lands clean, right beneath his eye.

A dark ribbon of blood snakes down his cheek, drips onto his jersey, vivid against the white.

He staggers, arms flailing for balance, mouth open as if he’s trying to figure out what just hit him.

“You don’t fuck with me, you pussy!” I roar. “Ever!”

The linesmen fly in, vultures trying to peel me off. One hooks my arm from behind, trying to pin me, while another wedges himself between us, Wiggins now slumped against the boards. My fists are still clenched, my knuckles raw and my lungs burning as if I’d sprinted a marathon in full gear.

“That’s enough, McAvoy!” the linesman barks, grabbing the back of my jersey. “Let him go.”

I don’t. Not right away.

“You gonna call that bullshit hit?!” I snap, eyes locked on him. “Or are you just here to clean up after the damage is done?”

His face hardens. “It was a clean check.”

“Clean? Are you blind, stripes?” I twist against the hold. “He went right for my head!”

“And you went for his face with your fists,” the linesman fires back. “You want a career left when this is over?”

“I’m not here to make friends,” I growl. “I’m here to win.”

“You keep this up, and you’ll be winning from the press box.”

Then I glance up. Instinct, mostly.

The press box is a blur of suits pretending to be shocked. Some have their heads buried in their phones, already tweeting about my latest “meltdown.” I can practically hear the headlines writing themselves.

Next to the press box, the rafters hang heavy with ghosts. Old banners ripple, faded green and stitched in glory: ’91. ’92. ’93. ’94. The Vipers dynasty years. Back when the sport was brasher, back when legends wore this jersey and championship parades shut down all of Manhattan.

But like all dynasties are destined to do, it crumbled. For the last thirty years, the Vipers haven’t sniffed a championship. No rings or banners, and certainly not parades. Just heartbreak and rebuilds and paper-thin playoff runs that fell apart the second the team crossed the Hudson River.

Langley hates those empty decades. You can feel it. Every time his face flashes on the Jumbotron, tight-lipped and manicured, it’s as if he’s daring the past to challenge him.

He wants a new banner. One with his fingerprints all over it, one that erases the decades of failure. One that finally, finally ends the drought.

And like it or not, I’m the guy he’s betting on to make that happen. After leading all players in scoring the last two years, I have arrived as the league’s next superstar, and superstars do what they want.

The city wants a hero. Langley wants a legacy. All I want is the puck on my stick and someone dumb enough to try to take it from me.

The referee’s tight grip on my jersey jolts me back to the present. I smirk as he finally skates me off the ice and ushers me toward the locker room.

“That’s a game misconduct, McAvoy,” barks the ref. “You’re done for the night.”

I don’t bother wasting any more breath on this battle. I made Wiggins pay for his dirty hit and I’m feeling good about every bit of it.

By the time the final buzzer sounds, I’m peeling off my shin pads, the steam still coming off my sweat-drenched bare chest. My teammates enter victorious, thanks in large part to my two-goal performance.

Tanner slaps a towel across my back as he passes, wide-eyed and grinning. “You gonna leave any glory for the rest of us?”

I smirk and drag a hand through my soaked hair. “You keep feeding me tape-to-tape passes like that, I might start charging you for the privilege.”

He laughs, tossing his gloves into his stall. “Two goals and a highlight-reel takedown? You’re gonna make Coach cry. Or nominate you for sainthood.”

Within moments, the locker room opens to the press and reporters swarm me. Flashing bulbs, mics shoved in my face and recorders already rolling.

I lean back in my stall, one leg stretched out, a towel around my waist. My lip’s swollen from Wiggins’s original hit and there’s a welt blooming under my eye. I could’ve waited to clean up, but what’s the point? They don’t want a pretty boy. They want raw, and I’m always happy to oblige.

“Grizz, what led to the fight in the third?” one guy yells over the noise, notebook shaking in his hand like he thinks I might punch him next.

I laugh. These guys cover our games, but it’s like they don’t watch them. It baffles me how clueless the media can be sometimes.