Page 68 of King

CHAPTER 19

King

The on-ice atmospherecrackles with intensity as we line up for the face-off. The Winnipeg Rebels are a tough team, and tonight we’ve battled our guts out. My eyes lock onto defenseman Jacob McLendon who’s been shadowing Penn Navarro like a hawk. We’re on high alert and I can sense trouble brewing.

Penn’s not oblivious to it either and has shot a wary look or two McLendon’s way. Not in a way that says he’s fearful, but more like he expects something to happen and is waiting for the inevitable.

We’re deep into the third period, up by one goal. We need clean, defensive play which means the Rebels are going to do whatever they can to force mistakes. They’re desperate and desperation breeds dirty play.

The puck drops, and Penn, with his lightning-fast reflexes, easily wins the face-off. He passes to Boone, who’s ready to advance it up the ice. McLendon immediately zeroes in on Penn, checking him hard into the boards. He pushes McLendon away, skating off to get into position. The play continues, but I’m watching closely, knowing this won’t be the last of McLendon’s antics.

Boone sends the puck to Stone, who shoots, but the Rebels’ goalie makes a save, freezing the puck. The referee blows the whistle, and the play is dead. I skate up to McLendon, getting in his face to render fair warning. “Watch yourself. You’re very close to getting your head knocked off.”

McLendon sneers, his eyes cold. “Better keep a close eye on your boy, Kingston. Bad things happen to bad people.”

What the fuck?He skates away and I look over to Penn who’s lining up to take the face-off again. He doesn’t spare a glance anywhere else, focused on his job.

The ref drops the puck, and we’re back in action. Penn flies down the ice, stickhandling with precision. McLendon shadows him and I stay close by, ready to intervene if he even looks like he’s going to touch my boy.

Just as Penn slips a pass over to Stone, McLendon turns his back on the play and hurtles toward Penn. I’m close behind but before I can do anything, he cross-checks Penn right in the back, sending him sprawling to the ice. He slides ten feet, crashing into the boards and the home crowd roars in disapproval. The referee’s hand goes in the air, signaling the penalty but before Drake can get off the ice for a man advantage, a Rebel player intercepts a pass and the play is whistled dead.

I’m barely aware of Penn trying to push himself up off the ice as I launch for McLendon. That was beyond a dirty play. It was personal and could have caused serious injury.

He turns just as I’m throwing my gloves off and I push him hard in the chest. “Want to hit someone, motherfucker? Hit me.”

McLendon gladly obliges, shaking off his gloves and pulling up his sleeves. He motions with his hand and I don’t wait for him to make the first move. I land a hard right to his jaw and then it’s on. We exchange blows, the sound of our punches and the roar of the crowd blending together. His fist connects with the side of my head, but I barely feel it. Adrenaline courses through me, driving me to land another hard right hook to his cheek. He stumbles but retaliates with a punch that glances off my helmet.

We grapple, pulling each other’s sweaters, each trying to gain the upper hand. McLendon’s skates go out from underneath him and I get in one more solid punch to his face before the refereesrush in to break us up. “All right… that’s enough,” one of them barks, but I struggle against them. The slight trickle of blood from McLendon’s lip isn’t nearly enough.

We’re eventually yanked apart, both of us sent to the box while the ref hands out penalties. As I unhook my helmet strap, still seething, I glance over at McLendon skating not five feet from me on the way to his punishment. “What’s your problem, asshole? That was a dirty fucking play.”

McLendon’s eyes are filled with malice. “Your buddy Penn deserved it and more. Some things you just don’t forgive.”

I’m stunned by the hatred in his voice as I pull off my helmet and sit on the bench in the penalty box. I grab a bottle of water, squirt some in my mouth and spit it out. I flex my right hand, noting the bruises already forming on my knuckles.

I think about what McLendon just did and said, even as the play resumes on the ice.

His words echo in my mind, connecting with the incident with that man in the crowd a week and a half ago.

Traitoris what he called Penn. Said he couldn’t be trusted. I had chalked it up to a disgruntled, drunk Spartans fan, but this type of enmity toward a fairly popular player doesn’t make sense.

What in the hell does Penn deserve? And why isn’t there forgiveness for it?

I try to fit the pieces together, but the picture is muddy. I glance at Penn on the bench across the ice, watching the game with focused intensity. He seems completely unfazed by what happened, but I can tell there’s a storm brewing.

♦

The mood inthe locker room is electric after the win. Laughter, high fives and the tapping of sticks against the floor fill thespace. The guys are jubilant, riding the high of holding on to the lead and securing the victory. Amid the celebration, my eyes keep drifting to Penn, who sits silently in his cubby, removing his gear methodically. He’s as disconnected and aloof as ever, seemingly unaffected by the adrenaline and camaraderie buzzing around him.

Rafferty, in high spirits, slaps me on the back. “You coming out with us tonight, King?”

“Nah, not tonight,” I reply, shaking my head. “Willa came to the game, and we’re going to head to my place to hang out.”

Atlas joins in, grinning as he rests an arm against my cubby. “Serious business, huh? King’s getting all domesticated on us.”

I chuckle, but my mind is elsewhere, still trying to put together the puzzle of what went down with McLendon. “Yeah, something like that.”

Rafferty raises an eyebrow. “You okay, man? You seem a bit distracted.”

---