Chapter 11
Cillian
The rink is a blur of movement, and usually the second the puck hits the ice, the rest of the world vanishes into the noise. But it's game one of the playoffs, the Vegas team again, and tonight I can't quite shake the awareness that Margot is sitting somewhere in the stands.
She's back with the rest of the Solstice crew and looking like she's actually starting to enjoy the chaos. To top it off, I'm finally finding my rhythm again. Maybe the tide is turning, or maybe I'm just desperate enough to impress her that I've stopped second-guessing every move.
Our "work date" was four nights ago, and it felt entirely too real. I'd walked her to her front step and nearly lost the fight with my own self-control to keep from kissing her right then and there.
I'd half-considered throwing caution to the wind and making a proper go of it, but she retreats behind those walls of hers so fast that just when I'm convinced we're finally on the same page, I realize I haven't the slightest clue where her boundaries sit anymore.
I push off the boards, cold air hitting my face as I scan the ice. Anderson is out here tonight, and the sight of his smug face is already grating on my last nerve. I tighten my grip on my stick.
Jonesy wins the next face-off and sends the puck back to me.
I carry it up the ice, head up, the game opening in front of me the way it hasn't in weeks.
Betts breaks toward the net and I slide him a pass across the middle.
He fires, the goalie blocks it, and the rebound bounces free, landing right on my stick like a gift.
I fire it into the top corner of the net before their defense can even react.
The crowd erupts. Jonesy crashes into me from behind with the force of a small truck, and I clap his helmet on my way past the bench.
"There he fucking is," he yells into my ear. "Welcome back."
We swing past the bench for a line of glove taps, and then Coach sends the next line over the boards and I drop onto the bench. The high of the goal is still buzzing under my skin and I can't help it, I glance up toward the section where Margot is sitting.
The Solstice group is mostly gone. Half their seats are empty, drinks abandoned in the cup holders. The intermission isn't for another few minutes, but it looks like the whole group emptied out at once for the bathroom or the bar.
Margot is the only one still in her seat.
And the four men in the row behind her have moved in.
They're rowdy, all in Vegas colors, and clearly drunk. One of them is practically pressed up against her shoulder, leaning over the seatback to yell something at the ice. She's pulled in on herself, hands tucked in her lap, knees angled away from him.
Anger flares up in my chest.
"O'Rourke!" Jonesy snaps, smacking my shin with the butt of his stick. "Eyes up. You're back on in thirty seconds."
I drag my focus back to the game. Anderson is stirring up trouble behind his own net, shoving and hacking at anyone within reach, and the ref's arm is already up. He's earned himself a penalty, which means we'll be up a man.
I glance back at the stands. The guy behind Margot has now leaned all the way down to talk into her ear. She's leaning away from him as far as the seat will let her, mouth moving in what looks like a polite please stop.
A woman two rows up has half-turned, frowning at them, and a man across the aisle is shouting something at them now too. The drunks just laugh and tell him to fuck off. The ushers I can spot are stationed at the tunnel mouths, a full section away, and one of them is on his radio.
Fucking hell. Leave her alone.
The whistle blows. The penalty is called, and I'm back over the boards with the advantage on our side. The puck drops and we go to work, quick crisp passes, the kind of clean movement we've been drilling for two months and never finding in games.
Jonesy slides the puck to me, I send it back to Betts, and when Betts fires his shot toward the net, I get my stick on it and redirect it past the goalie.
The arena explodes. Two goals before the first intermission. Coach is yelling something I can't hear over the roar. Jonesy is climbing me like a small dog and I shake him off, laughing, and look up.
My laugh dies in my throat.
The four of them are on their feet jeering the goal, and one of the men lurches forward, his beer sloshing over the rim and splashing down Margot's shoulder.
Margot is on her feet now, hands lifted between herself and the four of them. She's speaking. The one nearest her sketches a theatrical bow of apology that has his friends doubling over, and then his hand connects with her ass in a slap I'd swear I can hear from the ice.
She flinches away, the color draining from her face as she tries to push past them to the aisle.
He grabs her wrist and holds her there, grinning, while she struggles to wrench her arm free. Another fan is up two rows away, screaming at them, and the woman beside him is shrieking for security. Others are shouting too, but no one is intervening.
Why the fuck is no one actually helping her?
Something in my chest tears wide open.
I don't remember crossing the ice. I'm at the bench, shoving through my own teammates, my stick and gloves hitting the ground somewhere behind me.
Coach is bellowing my name, "O'Rourke! O'Rourke, what the fuck are you doing?
", and I can barely hear him. I haul myself up and over the railing behind the bench, and the crowd parts like the Red Sea as I surge through, the ushers and linesmen half a beat behind.
I am taking the stairs in skates. The rubber matting is the only reason I'm not on my face. I can hear Margot before I see her, her voice cutting up through the noise.
"Cillian!" she shouts as I crest the row. "What are you..."
The guy holding her wrist sees me coming and lets go like he's been burned, hands flying up as he stumbles back into his seat. "What the hell, man..."
I seize a fistful of his jersey and haul him bodily out of the row, swinging my fist hard into his gut. He doubles over with a sickening grunt, the wind punched clean out of him.
"Keep your fucking hands to yourself," I growl, the sound of my own voice foreign and jagged in my ears. "You think you can walk into my building and put your hands on a woman? You miserable piece of shit."
The arena is a deafening wall of noise. A thousand phones are already recording. I can see the black-and-gold jerseys of my teammates pouring onto the ice below. Margot has both hands clamped over her mouth, eyes wide and shimmering, and I can't tell if she's terrified or relieved.
"Cillian! Drop him!" Jonesy is screaming, and then the crushing weight of two officials hits me from behind, arms locking around mine as they haul me away from the row.
The section is chaos. Security is finally swarming in to drag the other three drunks out by the collars.
The fan who was yelling for help is back in his seat, the woman beside him with her hand over her mouth.
I scan the wreckage until my gaze lands on Margot, and the sight of her pale, shocked face hits me like a puck to the throat.
What have I done?
Players can’t go into the stands. Players can’t punch fans, no matter what.
The answer settles in my gut like a stone.
I've just blown the season. The Cup. The team. All of it, gone.
I'm fucking finished.
I step out of the showers, probably the last person left in the building. The staff have packed up, and the lot outside is down to a handful of cars.
Everything I've built in the last decade got fucking ruined tonight.
NHL forward sprints off the ice mid-game to assault a fan in the stands.
I spent two hours in a windowless conference room giving my account to arena security while the league office sat on speakerphone and Derek drafted a statement.
Then I got walked out past a hallway of cameras shouting questions. Did you know him? What set you off? Are you aware of league policy? It is, predictably, the scandal of the season, possibly even the decade.
They tossed me from the game on the spot, obviously. The suspension is coming, that's a given, but nobody knows how far the league will go. Nothing like this has happened in decades, and never in the playoffs, never on national TV.
So I’ve received an indefinite suspension while they investigate, and after that it's whatever the commissioner decides it needs to be to make an example of someone. My contract, the sponsors, all of it hanging on that decision.
The team is understandably livid. This is their season too, and I've just detonated a grenade in the middle of it. Jonesy made a heroic effort to look supportive, but even he couldn't quite hide the disappointment in his eyes.
My family group chat has been blowing up since the final horn. I sent one quick reply to let them know I was in one piece and then buried the phone at the bottom of my gear bag, unable to stomach the noise.
At the same time, if I were back on that ice this very second, watching that asshole put his hands on her, I'd do it all again.
Maybe it's because when Fiadh was assaulted back home, I was half a world away and couldn't do a fucking thing to help her. Maybe it's because I spent my childhood listening to the stories Mam brought home from her advocacy work.
I'd have done the same for anyone in that section. I'd like to believe that's true. But the fact that it was Margot...
I haven't even seen her since the officials hauled me away. I have no clue if she's even alright, if my "rescue" only managed to make her night ten times more traumatic, or if she currently despises me for the spectacle.
I towel dry my damp hair and tug on a pair of joggers, realizing only then that I left my t-shirt and hoodie back by the training tables. I'm standing there half-naked in the quiet when a voice cuts through the shadows.
"Cillian?"