Chapter 2 #3
What catches my attention, though, isn't the drink, but his leg bouncing relentlessly. The movement is subtle enough that most people probably wouldn't notice.
I do.
The nervous energy practically radiates off him. His shoulders are tense. His jaw is tight. Every few seconds he takes another sip from the can.
Suddenly the shower conversation makes a lot more sense.
Dante follows my gaze. “Hayes looks like he's about to throw up.”
“Probably.”
“You think he'll be okay?”
I don't answer immediately. The honest truth is that I don't know. Physically? Absolutely. The guy is one of the most talented players on this roster.
Mentally?
Different question.
Eventually Hayes stands. The room seems to grow quieter around him. Everybody knows what tonight means. Hayes grabs his helmet. The nervous bouncing finally stops. Game face. The transformation is immediate. Whatever storm is happening inside his head gets shoved behind a wall.
Professional athlete ready to perform. I respect that. Even if it worries me.
The tunnel leading toward the ice is packed with noise. Music shakes the walls. Fans scream somewhere beyond the entrance. The energy hits like a physical force. Players tap sticks against the floor. Coaches shout final instructions. Then it's time.
The Wizards explode onto the ice one by one. The crowd roars as twenty thousand people rise to their feet.
I skate through the entrance and soak it in. This is my favorite part. Always will be.
Then Hayes comes out, his eyes downcast on the ice. The arena changes instantly. A lot of people applaud. Mixed into it comes something else. Boos.
The sound echoes through the building. I glance toward Hayes. His expression doesn't change but I catch the tiny wince before he buries it.
Jesus. Two years later and they're still doing this.
Hayes pushes off and starts skating warmup laps. Like nothing happened. Like he didn't hear it. Maybe he's gotten used to it. The thought somehow feels worse.
The game starts fast. Opening-night adrenaline, I guess. Everybody has too much energy from the off season. Nobody wants to make mistakes.
For the first ten minutes, Hayes is unbelievable.
Flying across the ice.
Making plays.
Winning puck battles.
Creating opportunities.
Every time he touches the puck, something happens.
I find myself smiling.
The guy looks like the player I used to watch on TV. The version I never got to see in person.
Every good play earns applause, and scattered among the applause come the boos.
Every single time.
I watch Hayes hear them. Watch him pretend not to. The effort it takes has to be exhausting.
By the second period, the opposing team starts testing him. That's expected. Players smell weakness and try to use it to their advantage. One of their wingers decides to make Hayes his personal project for the night.
The guy starts talking every shift.
Little comments.
Little digs.
Nothing obvious enough for a penalty.
Just enough to get under someone's skin.
Until—
“Hacker Haaaayes!”
No response.
“You planning on killing anybody tonight?”
I almost admire Hayes's restraint. Almost. Personally, I would've punched the guy twenty minutes ago.
The chirping continues. Hayes ignores every word. The winger gets increasingly frustrated. Which is usually how these things go. Bullies hate being ignored.
Eventually, they stop wanting a reaction, and they start wanting damage. The hit happens midway through the third.
The puck gets dumped deep, and Hayes chases it into the corner. The winger follows. I know what's coming before it happens.
The guy drives Hayes into the boards. Hard. Way harder than necessary. The glass rattles. The crowd gasps. For a split second, Hayes disappears beneath the collision.
Something inside me snaps.
I don't think.
I don't weigh consequences.
I don't consider penalties.
I just move.
One second I'm at the blue line. The next I'm grabbing the guy's jersey.
“What the fuck?” He barely has time to turn around.
My gloves hit the ice.
His eyes widen.
Then my fist connects.
The crowd erupts.
The guy swings back.
Misses.
I hit him again.
And again.
The years of fighting on the ice take over.
Balance.
Leverage.
Timing.
Everything narrows into movement.
The world becomes noise and adrenaline.
The guy lands one decent punch.
I barely feel it.
Another punch connects.
Then another.
The crowd is losing its mind. Players are shouting. Refs are moving in.
I don't care.
The winger's head snaps back. A tooth skitters across the ice.
Only then do the officials finally manage to drag me away. My chest heaves. Adrenaline floods my bloodstream. The guy is still yelling something I can't hear over the blood pounding in my ears.
The refs shove me toward the penalty box. As I'm being escorted away, I look across the ice. Hayes is standing again. The trainers are checking on him.
He's fine from what I can see.
Thank God.
Then his eyes meet mine. For a second, the entire arena seems to disappear. The surprise on his face is unmistakable.
Like nobody has ever fought for him before.
The realization causes a thrill to thrum through my body.
And suddenly, I'm a lot less sorry about the penalty.