The arena erupts, hats raining down on the ice as I turn, throwing my arms up. I’m laughing, expecting Cauler and Zero to lift me off the ice in celebration. Instead, I’m face-to-chest with a red-faced Laker blueliner named Clarkson. He takes one look at my mid-celly smile and crosschecks me hard enough, I stumble backwards, tripping over someone’s leg and collapsing in a heap on the ice.
Okay, ouch.
Whistles blow as guys clash above me. I’m sprawled out, breathless, blinking up at Cauler with his hands twisted in Clarkson’s jersey, the cages of their helmets pressed together as they hurl insults back and forth. I don’t think Cauler will throw a punch, but god, I’d love to see it. Zero helps me to my feet once a ref pulls him away from the chaos, but I don’t hear whatever he says to me. Clarkson shoves his fingers into Cauler’s cage and shakes him, pushing his head back and refusing to let go even when Cauler holds his hands up in surrender.
I throw myself at him, surprising him enough to break his hold on Cauler. I shove him back another step.
“You’re kidding, right?” Clarkson says, catching on right away. “I’m not fighting you.”
I shove him again.
“Seriously, I’m not fighting you, James. I’d get shanked by Gary Bettman.”
I get close enough that I have to look almost straight up to hold eye contact, saying nothing, just challenging him to back down from a guy damn near a foot shorter than him.
“Christ,” he huffs. “Fine! Alright!” He pushes me back out of the scramble in front of the net, the refs distracted as they try to break up four other shoving matches.
Zero says my name, a warning in his voice, but that doesn’t stop me from grabbing Clarkson by the jersey and throwing a punch. It’s a reach, but I still manage to get him in the cage and bench myself all in one moment of rage. I pull back my fist and do it again, putting all my weight behind it. I’ve never been in a fight before. I just want to break Clarkson’s teeth in, make him think twice about ever putting his hands on Cauler like that again.
He barely reacts to my punches, his helmet and my lack of fighting experience protecting him from any damage. But when he takes a swing of his own, I feel it. My helmet absorbs most of it, but it’s still enough to stun me for a second, force me to bite down hard on my mouth guard.
I feel the rumble of the crowd more than I hear it, like a bass line pounding in my chest. There’s a flash of black and white in my periphery, the refs closing in on us, but I can’t let them separate us before I make him hurt. I line up another shot to his chin and take three more to the side of my head.
My face throbs. I taste blood in my mouth. Feels like I took a baseball bat to the skull. The only thing keeping me on my feet is Clarkson’s grip on my jersey, my hands twisted into his. I give him another weak shove.
“Thanks a lot, James,” he says. His voice sounds like it’s coming through water. “Now I’m the asshole that kicked the shit out of the star.”
“Fuck you,” I spit back.
“Okay, night night, little one.” He pushes back on me, easing me down to the ice almost gently and throwing his hands up in surrender when the refs descend on him. “A little late, yeah?” he says as they lead him to the bench.
I swear to god, if everyone doesn’t stop screaming, my head’s gonna explode.
I brush off the linesman reaching to help me up and roll over to my knees, pulling off my helmet. Blood drips onto the ice, falling from just under my eyebrow. Pink drool dangles from my lips. Everything’s rolling like I’m eight shots deep. It’s not like I’m used to taking fists to the head. Doesn’t help that Clarkson’s massive.
An arm falls across my shoulders, and Cauler kneels in front of me. “Terzo, you legend. You need the trainer?”
I shake my head. Bad idea. I’m about to puke all over Cauler’s knees and then he’ll never look at my ass again. I reach for his arm and let him help me up. He keeps his arm around my waist as the refs follow us to the benches.
“You looked like a Chihuahua taking on a mastiff,” Cauler says. “Like an angry little puppy. Adorable.”
I can’t hold back my grin, even if it hurts. It stays as I step off the ice and stagger down the tunnel toward the training room, slapping my hands against the hands of fans reaching down to me.
The adrenaline starts to fade as soon as I get to the trainer’s and she starts dabbing at the blood on my face, the cheering muffled by layers of concrete and distance.