Page 15 of Head Over Skates

The game starts off intense, with both teams playing aggressively. But we hold our own.

Late into the second period, I manage to steal the puck from one of Quebec's players and quickly pass it off to Hendrix, who takes off towards their goal with lightning speed.

But just as he's about to shoot, Lemieux comes out of nowhere and body checks Hendrix into the boards.

I race over towards Lemieux and shove him with all my might. He stumbles back but doesn't fall.

“Tu veux jouer dur?” he sneers at me. “Jouons dur!”

Play rough? Bring it.

He digs his stick into my ribs, provoking me like the baboon he is. In an instant, I lose control of myself and retaliate with a force I didn't know I possessed. It’s like all the frustration from the past few weeks pours out of me. Gloves drop, and fists start flying as the entire arena erupts into chaos. Players from both teams join in the brawl, a blur of motion and fury.

In the midst of the chaos, I manage to land a punch to Lemieux's face. He stumbles back, surprise flashing in his eyes as he touches his lip and finds blood. The crowd roars in approval, and I feel my adrenaline surge. But then, out of nowhere, a fist connects with my jaw. It sends me reeling backwards onto the ice.

I barely have time to process what's happening when Lemieux is on top of me, his fists raining down. I manage to duck and roll away, tackling him off balance. His legs splay out from under him, and we crash onto the ice together.

Through the melee, I can see Sawyer trading blows with another Quebec player while Coach Knight shouts from the bench.

Suddenly Emily flashes in my mind again. What would she think of this? Probably that it was dumb testosterone-fueled idiocy. She’d be right. And she’d put it in her freaking blog.

Maybe it wasn't the smartest decision to get involved in a fight with a guy nicknamed for how much damage he can do to another human being’s face.

The referee blows his whistle, but no one seems to hear it over the cacophony of cheers and jeers from the crowd. It takesseveral tense moments before he and two more refs manage to pull us apart and call for a break.

"Jablonski! Lemieux!" He shouts at us both in equally angry French and English, probably cursing at us in both languages at once. "Penalty box! Now!"

Lemieux grins at me as blood trickles down his split lip. "A plus tard, Juggernaut," he says, laughing, as though this is all just a game to him.

"As if, Lemieux," I grit out, shooting him a glare.

I resist the urge to punch him one more time as I follow the ref's orders, skating my way over to the penalty box with a chorus of boos and cheers ringing in my ears. As I settle onto the hard bench, I ignore the watchful eyes of the crowd and instead let my gaze drift across the rink to where Emily sits atop her Zamboni. Her expressive brows arch, and she’s got a wicked curl on her pretty little mouth.

She meets my gaze, and for a second everything else falls away—the noise of the crowd, the chill of the air, even Lemieux’s goading laughter. It’s just us. Her delicate face scrunches up as she shakes her head at me, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. As I watch her fold her arms underneath that hideously oversized parka she always wears and toss back her head in laughter, I can't help but grin back. I can almost hear her say, “This isSOgoing in the blog. Deal with it, Jablonski.”

The rest of the game is a blur - a mixture of blocked shots, hard checks and missed opportunities. The final score isn't in our favor, and Les Nordiques gloat in our faces during the post-game handshake.

Making my way back into the locker room after bidding adieu to our disappointed fans, I find myself actually looking forward to my planned visit to the Zam Queen and tell her exactly what I think about her little stunt. Those passive aggressive veiled insults in her latest blog post, as if I wouldn’t notice. How I’llmake her squirm when she realizes I won’t stand for it. And she’ll have to write a new post. This time, under my watchful eye.

She’ll get all worked up because she hates me so much (although I still have no idea why). And then her claws will come out as she bickers. Those witty comebacks... the way her eyes light up when she’s sparring with me. How I want to wipe that witchy smirk off her face—the many,manyways I can think of to do just that.

"And what areyougrinning at, Juggernaut?" Lemieux’s voice shatters my thoughts. “You lost.”

“Oh, just thinking how we’re going to destroy you in a few weeks in Quebec,” I reply quickly.

He glares at me with a smug sneer. “A little advice. Enjoy the championship trophy while you can.”

“You’re still sore we took it from you last year?”

He throws me a conceited snicker. “Mark my words,glandu. It will be like stealing candy from a baby.”

“Hosier,” I scoff as he saunters away.

The last thingI want to do after a tough loss is sit through another interview rehashing everything that goes wrong. But that's the job. So I put on a polite face and give the usual platitudes about regrouping and staying focused. My mother taught me manners.

But I'm exhausted after trying to give conciliatory, boring answers to their lame questions.

As soon as it's over, I make a beeline for the showers. The hot water rinses away some of the frustration as I mentally prepare for the conversation ahead with Emily.

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