Page 87 of Melting the Ice

He and Ramsey were barely able to fucking hold them.

Brody slammed his gloves onto the bench, anger rushing through him in a hot, dizzying wave. He hadn’t been the one to fuck up. He’d only been trying to pry himself loose. Maybe a little more forcefully than he’d needed to, sure, but what was it they always said?

It was always the second guy who got caught.

It took them a little over thirty seconds this power play.

They slipped right past Ramsey, who Brody could tell was exhausted, and flicked the puck in only a split second before Finn dived for the empty space, and the crowd erupted.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Brody cried out, as the penalty box door opened.

“Bench,” Zach called, even though he’d just beenonthe bench.

Brody made a face but he retreated over to the bench, lifting himself over the boards and collapsing next to Ramsey, who was breathing hard.

“I—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Ramsey said, not letting him even get the apology out. “I told you not to fuck with them.”

“I wasn’t,” Brody claimed. But he’d hit the guy harder than he’d really intended. And more times than he’d probably needed to. He’d felt the frustration bubbling up inside him, and he’d just reacted.

Instead of focusing, instead of being the needle, slid in exactly as deep as needed, he’d become the hammer.

“It’s not how you play hockey,” Ramsey pointed out.

It hurt, but it was also fair.

“Focus,” Coach B barked out. His stern expression promised that they’d be talking about this at the end of the game.

Brody wanted to say,I don’t know how I play hockey, anymore, but he didn’t, because this definitely wasn’t the right place to be havingthatconversation.

“I’m subbing Greene for Faulkner with Ramsey,” Coach said, when Brody went to get up.

Fucking shifted to the second defensive pair at the end of the game. Brody wanted to howl about how fucking unfair this all was, but he’d been the one to nab the penalty that had led to the tying goal.

Part of him got it. Part of him understood it.

While the other part of him screamed in protest.

Two minutes before the end of the game, Elliott grabbed the puck on a breakaway, and took an insane risk, deking the goalie, and slapped it in with a nice little shot up above his right shoulder.

Brody celebrated with the rest of his team, but by the time they trudged into the locker room, elated but exhausted, he didn’t feel much like patting himself—or anybody else—on the back.

He was sure someone was going to corner him and read him the riot act. Coach B, definitely. Ramsey, for sure.

But nobody did.

Until Brody wanted to lash out, pound his fists at anyone who kept smiling at him, like he’d fucking done anything to win the game.

Along with the rest of the team, he showered, dressed, and dutifully headed out to the victory dinner that Coach had told them was waiting at Jimmy’s if they pulled this win off.

But still, nobody said a word.

Everyone acted, Brody realized, like his fuckup hadn’t even happened. Like it wasn’t even worth commenting on.

He lingered in the doorway of Jimmy’s, watching as the team piled into a dozen booths.

There was his normal spot, right next to Ramsey, but he was afraid to take it.

---