Page 79 of From Coast to Coast

“You got something you want to say?”

“Tougher than your boyfriend, huh? He must be the woman in the relationship.”

Another whistle is blowing as one of the coaches picks up on what’s happening. Nobody has interfered yet though, even though I can feel the stares of my teammates on the back of my neck.Good. Enjoy the show, fuckers.

Putting pressure on the inside of his knee again, I rotate my hips and throw him to the ground. He was already unsteady, so he goes easily, unable to break his fall. I’m so close I can hear his breath whoosh out of him as his back hits the ice. He gets his gloves off first—clearly anticipating where this was headed—and yanks me down by afistful of practice jersey. I drop my gloves as well, just as he tries to get a right hook in, but it glances off my helmet.

“No,” I hear Zolkov say from behind me. “Let them.”

Even though fans love them, hockey fights never end up looking as exciting as they feel. Every fight I’ve been in, I’ve seen the replay and been embarrassed by how ridiculous I look. There is also the understanding that you aren’t setting out to murder your opponent, which in this case, doesn’t apply. I’m seeing red and the blood is pumping in my ears in tune to the wordfaggot. He didn’t have the balls to say it to Grayson, but obviously didn’t have any qualms about me—the smaller and weaker man.

The fight probably lasts for less than a minute, but feels like five. Blood is splattered across the ice and Petterson’s nose is swollen to twice the size it was before. My knuckles are already raw from hitting his helmet accidentally, when I was aiming for his ugly fucking face.

Zolkov pulls me away.

“That’s enough,” he says into my ear, just as Petterson rolls over and spits onto the ice. Zolkov pulls me backward, arm tight around my chest.

“Talk about Grayson again, and I will fucking end you,” I say, making sure everybody in the rink can hear. I’m looking at Petterson when I say it, but the words are for everyone. I hold up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m good, Z.”

He lets me go immediately. Turning around, I leave the equipment I lost in the fight and skate toward the bench. Coach shouts at my retreating back, but I don’t even break stride as I step off the ice and walk to the locker room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Grayson

When I tryto video-call Remy, he declines immediately, only to call me right back sans video. Bemused, I accept the call and bring the phone to my ear. I’m sitting on my patio, enjoying one of those incongruous sunny, Colorado winter days—there was snow on the ground yesterday, and today it is seventy-two degrees and balmy.

“Remy?”

“Gray, hi,” he says, in a tone of voice that makes my stomach clench. He’s either sad or exhausted—maybe both—but I can’t tell without seeing his face. “Sorry about that. I’m walking to the rink, so not a great time for video.”

“No worries. Do you want to talk later instead?”

“No, no, now is fine. Good game last night. Got you with a new partner, huh? I was wondering if there was going to be a shake-up with Lancaster out.” A horn honks on his end, and I close my eyes to imagine the familiar streets he’s walking.

“Yeah. I’m new enough that I’m able to play the same no matter who they pair me with, so I’m mostly going to be playing fourth line with the younger guys. I don’t mind, though. I’d rather the top lines be stable. You ready for tonight? First game back from break and home ice advantage—should be fun.”

Remy’s silent but for the soft puffs of air as he walks. The quiet stretches into the uncomfortable zone before he speaks in a careful monotone. I sit up straighter in my chair.

“I won’t be playing tonight,” he says.

“They scratched you? Why?” Healthy scratches aren’t unheard of, obviously, but they rarely happen with players who have an on-ice presence like Remy does. If they scratch him, they’ll miss him.

“Because I got into a fight at practice yesterday. I’m going in right now to speak with the GM.”

“A fight atpractice?Remy, what the fuck happened? Are you okay?” I drop my feet from the balcony rail and stand up, wishing I had space enough to pace.

“Oh, I’m fine. Petterson was talking shit and I am so fucking sick of these guys. He must have been afraid of you, because he had no problem at all using slurs tomyface.”

Closing my eyes, I tip my head back and barely swallow down my groan. This is why I’ve regretted coming out while I was still playing for the NHL, and this is exactly why I advised Remy of caution.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I already knew I’d be leaving at the end of this season—might as well burn a few bridges on my way out the door. Screw them.” His voice holds more vitriol than I’ve ever heard from him. I’m sorry for that, too, but keep it to myself. I should never have put him in this position.

“You think they’re going to terminate your contract early,” I say, not really meaning it as a question. I’d bet money that’s what this meeting with the GM is about. Fighting with a teammate at practice could be classified as disobeying club guidelines and the rules of conduct. They’d be well within their rights to cut him.

“Yeah.”

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