24. Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
~ZED~
The last three days have been exhausting hell. Press, interviews, galas, corporate sponsor shoots, mandatory team meetings, and two-a-day practices. I haven’t had five quiet minutes alone with Lilly.
And tonight is Opening Night.
The air in the arena is thick with anticipation. Twenty thousand screaming fans are making the ground under my skates vibrate. The rivalry match against the New York Titans has the arena going crazy. My jaw tightens as I think about who’s waiting on the other side of that ice.
The bottom-feeding trash Liam.
Seeing him out here in a Titans jersey, breathing the same air as my girl, makes the violence in my blood surge to the surface.
I roll my shoulders, gripping my stick. I’d like nothing more than to draw some fresh blood tonight.
Around me, the guys are bouncing, slamming their helmets together, screaming, and pounding on the padded walls to get hyped.
Until I step up to the tunnel opening and glance toward the VIP glass.
Hello, snowflake.
Adrenaline surges through me, turning my blood into hot lava. My girl is about to watch me play for the first time, and God fucking help the poor fuckers we’re up against.
The arena lights kill. The crowd goes insane as red spotlights flash across the white ice. Heavy rock music blasts from the speakers overhead, shaking the stadium to its foundation.
The booming voice of the arena announcer rattles straight through my skull.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WELCOME TO OPENING NIGHT! TONIGHT, YOUR HOMETOWN BOYS DEFEND THE ICE AGAINST THE VISITING NEW YORK TITANS! AND STARTING IN NET... STANDING AT SIX-FOOT-SEVEN... TWO-TIME STANLEY CUP WINNER, NUMBER 31... ZEEEEEDDDDD MERCERRRRRR!”
The foghorn blasts. Tradition dictates the goalie goes first, so the team stands back and I step onto the ice alone.
My skates bite deep into the frozen surface.
I glide out, doing a slow lap around the ice as the noise from the crowd threatens to pop my eardrums. I slide up to my net, banging my stick against the red iron posts before scraping my skates across the blue crease, carving out my territory.
I pull my mask down over my face, and the world shrinks into a narrow grid of wire and ice.
I tilt my masked head toward the glass, catching Lilly’s wide-eyed gaze through the wire of my cage.
I’ll play with you after I end these fuckers, baby.
Dom glides past the crease during warmups, taking a hard swing with his stick to slam his composite blade against the plastic casing of my leg pads before skating in close.
“Hold down the fort, big man,” Dom barks, his eyes electric through his visor.
“Give them hell,” I say and slam my blocker fist into his chest pad before he turns and skates off into the red-and-white sea of my teammates.
The puck drops, and the game erupts into a violent, high-speed blur.
Up behind the glass, I know Lilly is watching my every move.
Every time the puck hits my chest protector or I flash my glove to snatch a hundred-mile-an-hour slap shot out of the air, the home crowd roars, and I catch a split-second glimpse of her jumping in her seat.
Then comes the whistle midway through the second period.
The ref blows the play dead for a commercial break, and I bend over, resting my heavy goalie stick across my pads to catch my breath. I tap my water bottle, taking a cold swig, waiting for my line to shift.
Then a shadow cuts across my crease. A silver-and-blue Titans jersey glides past the goal line, stopping just short of the red paint. I don’t even have to look to recognize the pathetic, arrogant posture.
Liam.
I slowly straighten up to my full height, towering over him. I tilt my dark mask down, staring at him through the grid of my wire cage.
I was fully expecting it, but I didn’t think he’d actually have the balls to come up to me after the state I left his face in last time.
The refs are starting to skate in to clear the crease just as Liam tosses his chin at me.
“You enjoying my hand-me-downs, Mercer?” he sneers, a nasty, bitter smirk curling his lips.
A blinding red flash detonates behind my eyes. The rage hits my blood like gasoline, but I force my legs to stay planted. I keep my gloves down. He wants the two-minute minor. He wants me off.
Seeing that I’m not snapping, Liam’s bitter insecurity overrides whatever tiny brain he has left. He steps right into my blue paint—a direct violation of goaltender space—and shoves his stick shaft into my chest protector.
“Answer me, you giant piece of shit,” Liam spits.
Swing.
As if he heard my mental command, he brings his glove up and cracks the side of my mask with a sharp jab.
That’s all the invitation I need.
“How does it feel fucking your Coach’s daughter? Does she whimper for you like a good little bitch, or—”
He never finishes the sentence. I didn’t get to bash his fucking head into the floor at the gala, but on my ice? It’s open season.
I rip my blocker off, toss my stick into the corner, and launch myself at him.
The crowd lets out a collective, ear-splitting roar as I grab him by the collar of his jersey, yank his helmet clean off his head, and slam him flat onto his back against the ice.
Pandemonium breaks out.
The whistle screams frantically. Players from both sides rush the crease, a massive line brawl erupting around us, but nobody can get between me and Liam. I mount him, pinning his shoulders to the frozen ground, and bring my fist down into his jaw.
Fuck, this feels good.
Liam’s head bounces off the ice, and I swing again. This time, blood sprays across the ice from his split lip.
“Didn’t I fucking warn you?” I roar right before my fist connects with his nose. It breaks under my knuckles with a sickening crunch I hear even with the crowd going mad.
It takes three referees and two linesmen grabbing my arms to finally haul me off him. Blood is dripping from my knuckles onto the ice as the officials try to drag me back toward the tunnel. Liam lies in a bloody heap in my crease, his trainers rushing out to drag his unconscious ass off the ice.
God, that was fucking disappointingly boring. I expected at least a punch, a little resistance. Bummer.
The Blazers’ fans are roaring in bloodthirsty approval.
The head referee points a finger at me, shouting over the noise. “FIVE-MINUTE MAJOR FOR FIGHTING! GAME MISCONDUCT! GET HIM OFF!”
Yeah, yeah. Liam took the first swing, which means I’m tossed for the rest of tonight, but there’s no automatic match suspension hanging over my head—just a league fine and a warning from the office tomorrow morning.
I’ll be right back in the net for the next game.
Before I turn to step off the ice, I tilt my head back, my eyes cutting up. Lilly is standing right up against the plexiglass. Her hands are pressed flat against the barrier, her eyes wide as she looks from Liam to me.
As our eyes lock through the chaos of the screaming stadium, a slow, subtle smile tugs at the corner of her lips.
A vicious smirk curls my own mouth beneath my mask. The crowd can scream all they want, the refs can throw their red flags, the league can fine me. Lilly just smiled at me.
As the linesmen herd me toward the tunnel, our backup goalie comes rushing off the bench, strapping his helmet on, sweating bullets at being thrown into a live game like this.
We cross paths at the edge of the ice.
I reach out, dabbing him before yanking him closer to me.
“Listen to me very carefully,” I growl into his face. “You do not let a single fucking puck past that red line tonight. You hold my ice. Do you understand me?”
He swallows hard, nodding frantically. “I-I got it, Z! I got it!”
“Show them what you’re made of.” I push him toward the net.
I step off the ice, my skate blades clacking heavily against the rubber matting of the tunnel.
I pass our bench, where Coach stands near the glass.
He doesn't yell, but his eyes are blazing with fury at losing his starting goalie in the second period.
Behind him, Dom and the boys bang their sticks hard against the boards in silent, violent solidarity.
The head trainer and two arena security guards fall into step behind me as I stalk down the narrow corridor toward the home locker room.
The heavy steel door swings open, and the silence of the back hallway swallows the muffled roar of the crowd. I march straight to my stall, ripping my helmet off and slamming it onto the bench.
“Let me see the hand, Mercer,” the team doc says, stepping into the room with a medical kit while the head gear guy starts unbuckling my heavy leg pads.
“I’m fine, doc,” I mumble, sitting down on the bench as the doctor grabs a wipe to clean the blood off my knuckles.
“What the hell happened out there?” he asks as he dabs at my knuckles.
I turn my head, my eyes locking onto the overhead monitor mounted on the locker room wall, watching the broadcast replay of Liam being helped off the ice.
“Lost my temper a little,” I mutter.
“Doesn’t usually happen to you,” he chuckles, grabbing a new wipe.
“About time, huh?” I huff out, looking at Liam’s bloodied face on the monitor.
He’ll think twice before he utters her name ever again.
***
The low bass from the speakers in Dom’s living room vibrates through the floor into my chest. The Blazers took the win 4-3 after my backup clutched the third period, and now the entire team is taking over our captain’s place, drowning the victory in alcohol.
The equipment managers, team doctors, and trainers are scattered around the back patio, enjoying the booze.
After the game, I slipped out before the press could find me. I had a brief sit-down in Coach’s office back at the arena. I twisted the narrative just enough for everyone to believe me. The entire locker room knew that if I finally snapped and put a guy on a stretcher, it wasn’t for nothing.
“So, you wanna tell me what actually went down?” Dom asks, leaning against the kitchen island and taking a sip from his glass.
“He’s Lilly’s ex,” is all I say, as the words still taste fucking vile on my tongue.