Page 88 of Chasing the Puck

TUCK

This Ryan Wentz douchebag has been up my ass all fucking game.

I don’t know what the refs are looking at. This guy’s slamming me with late hits, trying to trip up my skates, playing dirty as hell.

When he high sticks me to no reaction from the officials, Coach Torres, who’s usually stoic during a game, is shouting bloody murder at the negligent refs.

I hop onto the bench for a shift change. Kiran takes my place, and I drop down next to Jamie.

“The fuck’s that guy’s problem?” the freshman asks.

I shake my head, trying not to let anger both at the dirty player and shitty refs bite deeper into me. Getting fouled is bad enough, I don’t want it to affect my focus, too. I just need to concentrate on what I need to do out there.

“Beats me,” I say. I watch Went do the same thing I just did, switching out with a teammate for some rest on the bench.

Guess he only wants to be in the game when he can fuck with me.

The players on the bench rise to our feet as Kiran, with the freshest legs on the ice right now, blazes past the Withermore Falcons defenders and scores a goal, putting us in the lead 2-1.

Minutes later, though, the Falcons get us back. Coach signals for all the first line players to head back onto the ice. Sure enough, moments after my blades connect with the smooth surface of the rink, Ryan Wentz is hopping back out, too.

The play is intense and contentious, both teams eager to step out of the current tie with the one-goal advantage. I end up in a battle for the puck with Wentz behind the Falcons’ net. I’m zeroed in on our struggle over the puck, when he says something that slices through my concentration.

“You enjoying my sloppy seconds, McCoy?”

His words stab into my chest. Acid rises in my throat. It’s enough to shatter my concentration like a glass crashing onto a hardwood floor. All it takes is a split second of me losing focus for him to take advantage and win possession of the puck.

I shouldn’t be concentrating on anything but getting the puck back as I pump my legs to catch up to him while he skates towards our goal. But my head is spinning with thoughts.

Ryan Wentz. Ryan Wentz. Have I overheard the name Ryan at any point, from Olivia, or even from Summer or Hudson?

I know Olivia used to date a hockey player. Anger clogs my throat as the obvious thought grips me.

Is this the fucking piece of shit who hurt Olivia? The guy who had the smartest, most talented, sweetest, most beautiful girl in the damn world and taught her to be afraid of her own feelings?

And did that heap of garbage just fucking dare to call her sloppy seconds?

Rage boils in my blood.

But maybe that’s not the case. All kinds of trash talk goes down in hockey. Sometimes people say random shit, hoping that by chance they hit a nerve that throws their opponents off their game.

Well, if that’s what Wentz was doing, I can’t deny that he’s succeeded.

I try my best to push thoughts of slamming my fist into Ryan Wentz’s face until his nose is above his eyes out of my head. I need to focus on this game. The Frozen Four is right around the corner, and we sure as hell don’t want another loss after last weekend.

Lane manages to win the puck back and pass it to me. Sure enough, moments later, Wentz is on me, pressing me against the dasher boards as we struggle again for the puck.

I force myself not to think about what happened last time we were in this position. Force myself to think about nothing but winning the battle for the puck and taking it home to their net.

But then he says something I can’t ignore.

“I still got Olivia’s number, you know. Might text her my hotel room number after the game. I know I got bored of her and traded up years ago, but she’s probably still good for an easy fu?—”

My fist smashes into his face before my hockey stick even hits the ice.

I see red. Literally. I always thought that was just an expression, but right now the crisp white ice looks blood red.

I’m in a frenzy, throwing jabs and hooks at Ryan as he tries to cover up. I get in a couple direct hits. The smash of my knuckles against his face is the only thing that brings any relief to the incandescent rage that’s burning all over me.

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