Page 88 of Ice Mechanic

Gunner points two fingers at the board and nods at me. It’s a signal letting me know that they’ll keep me away from the offside—which is my biggest trigger. I hate being smashed into the boards, especially by the opposing team. Fifty percent of my fights in the league started that way. It’s like dynamite on a gasoline keg.

Just focus on keeping it together tonight.

My limbs are loose. My stick, secure in my hands.

The referee drops the puck.

I’m off like a gunshot.

A thrill runs through my veins as I skate past my opponents, but it’s not long until I’m picking up the other team’s defensemen. They swarm me like fleas on a dog.

No surprise there. Clearing me from the ice and pushing me into the penalty box was a common strategy for my past opponents.

The team we’re up against isn’t known for a great defense, but they’re wicked aggressive on the attack. Our main plan tonight is keeping control of the puck.

And me?

Well, I need to keep control of my temper.

The cold prickles in my throat, turning the air around me heavy. The lights in the arena are bright enough that I can see the sweat percolating on the defenseman’s chin as he blazes a line straight for me.

Ice sprays beneath my skates when I stop abruptly. He tries to sweep the puck from under me, but I’m ten moves ahead of him. It’s already on its way, headed to Renthrow who takes control like he was built for the ice.

I’m on the move, ready to skate over the line the moment Renthrow crosses with the puck.

The opposing team claims it back and we’re on the defense.

I’m heading into the scrimmage when someone blows into my shoulder. I’m hit from behind with enough force to jerk me forward. My head whips up and I glare at number thirteen, a bulky guy with dull brown eyes. He sneers at me from behind his mouth guard.

The ref doesn’t call it and that, plus the obvious targeting, sets my blood boiling.

Deep breath, Chance.

Getting myself together, I skate ahead just as Theilan clears the puck. We’re back in control of the play and I do an about face, skating into the fray.

The moment Theilan passes and I have control of the puck, the opposing team flies at me. Hockey sticks dart around my legs, fighting to take the puck. In the chaos, I feel a hand shove into my back.

The ref calls the infraction.

But the spark’s been lit.

My nostrils flare when I notice number thirteen smirking at me. He skates close by and, if his words weren’t lost to the wind, I’m one hundred percent sure he’d be heckling me.

Skating ahead of him, I follow the play until we get to our defense zone. There, thirteen skates off with the puck.

Red clouds my vision.

I meet Watson’s eyes. The goalie is dressed in thick knee pads and a strong helmet. But even with all the gear, his concern shines through. He does a slow downward gesture with his hands.Calm down.

I heave a breath, shaking my head.

The coach calls me in during the time out, probably seeing what Watson is seeing.

“Cool off, McLanely,” he says, patting my back when I climb over the boards. “They’re coming for our throats tonight. You won’t do us any good in the sin bin.”

I’m replaced by another forward, who’s ten times slower than I am. On pins and needles, I watch the game proceed without me.

Gunner makes the first score, and the crowd goes ballistic.

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