Page 26 of His Big Bad Stick

To be fair, what we talk about on the ice doesn’t matter in real life. We’re a bunch of testosterone filled guys talking about hockey and girls. It’s the basis of our lives and our existence. Most of the guys are already locked in on their college choices, ready to play more hockey and meet a whole new group of girls. Or better yet - women.

A handful of us are good enough right now to go pro if we wanted to.

Archer? He thinks he’s one of them.

He’s not.

He’s not even that good.

He’s on the ice due to the goodwill of his father. That’s it.

None of this should matter. At all.

Archer is an asshole. Everyone knows it.

At the same time, I’m an asshole too.

He ends up getting the puck passed to him.

I know I’ve got my defense behind me to help if I need it.

I won’t need it.

I don’t even care about the puck.

As I skate toward Archer…

There is a voice in my head that sometimes tells me right from wrong. It’s very quiet. Very faint. I rarely listen to that voice.

I could easily hit Archer shoulder to shoulder. Move him off the puck.

Give him a chance to make a move to get around me.

As I said - I don’t give a fuck about the puck.

And as far as my shoulder goes?

It connects with Archer’s mouth with a beautiful yet sickening sound.

Archer’s head snaps back. He drops his stick. The puck slides across the ice to Ollie’s stick.

But the play is long since dead.

Coach Davis blows his whistle.

It’s instant tension when Archer looks at me.

Blood pooling in his mouth.

“What the fuck is your issue?” Archer yells at me.

I throw my gloves to the ice and go for him.

He pushes back at me.

We’re ready to go here.

Ollie jumps in and stops the oncoming fight.

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