Page 7 of Iced Out

But at least Quinton seems to take Coach’s demands at face value, playing a lot more like a team player than a solo act to start off the third period. Even passes the puck off to me on a breakaway, allowing me to run with it and—

Out of nowhere, I’m slammed into the boards by one of their defensemen, and the impact sends a jolt of pain lancing through my shoulder. I freeze on impact, the defender taking the puck with ease, leaving me empty-handed and in a panic as the dull ache continues to spread through the entire limb. It takes a couple minutes for the throbbing to subside, so I know the hit probably tweaked a muscle or something, but it’s not any less nerve-wracking.

The last thing I need is a re-injury during the most important season of my career.

“Pass you the puck, only for you to pull that shit?” Quinton snarls. “Nice. Jackass.”

I watch as he takes off down the ice, attempting to stop Trenton College from scoring while irritation vibrates through my chest.

Quinton’s inability to keep his fucking mouth shut on the ice is the same reason I was injured. Instead of focusing on his game, he was too busy running his damn mouth to one of the defensemen from Waylon during the playoffs last season. All game. Until he finally had enough of Quinton’s crap. Unfortunately, that happened in the middle of a change on the fly, and instead of slammingQuintoninto the boards and breakinghiscollarbone, it was me.

The fucking guy even told me he was going for de Haas, but the shuffling of all our players caused him to lose sight for one second and…well, the rest is history.

I went in for surgery a couple days later and spent my summer months going to PT multiple times a week, only barely feeling like I was at a hundred percent a couple weeks before practices started this season.

And none of that would have happened if de Haas knew how to keep his mouth shut. Yet another thing on the ever-growing list of reasons why this guy is the bane of my fucking existence.

I’m about to skate back toward where the rest of the guys are helping Cam defend the net, the forwards for Trentonon an aggressive offensive attack.

That’s when Trenton’s center, named Adams, checks Quinton into the wall. Hard. A lot harder than necessary. Meanwhile, the puck is sent sailing to the other end of the rink. Instincts tell me to skate after it, but the whistle blowing catches my attention and drags it back to where Quinton is crumpled to the ground.

A hush falls over the arena as everyone holds their breath, something that always happens when a player goes down.

Shit.

“Give him some room,” one of the officials commands, creating space around Quinton as he pulls his helmet off.

When Quinton raises his head, I catch it. The fire in his eyes burning brighter and hotter, just like when he’s about to—

Quinton lunges from the ground, grabbing Adams around the waist. They both go tumbling back to the ice, and de Haas rips the helmet right from Adams’s head as he’s pinned beneath him. I know what’s coming, and from the look on Adams’s face, he does too.

And with the first punch thrown by Quinton, the hockey arena has turned into a boxing ring.

Utter pandemonium breaks out as Quinton continues to land blows on Adams. The team boxes clear, everyone moving to the ice to either help break up the fight or start one of their own. The officials do their best to block anyone from getting closer, meanwhile a couple of our guys attempt to stop de Haas from using Trenton’s center as a punching bag.

Adams must get a shot in on Quinton too, because when Cam and Rossi pull Quinton away, his eyebrow is split, blood starting to spill down the side of his face.

That doesn’t seem to faze him though, because he shoves our guys away from him and surges toward Adams all over again, who’s only just gotten to his feet.

Okay, that’s enough.

I skate toward the hot-headed idiot, grabbing him by the collar yanking him away from Adams.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I snap, my teeth bared as I back him against the glass.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Rossi and one of the wingers for Trenton both holding back Adams, doing their best to keep the two from going in for a third round. Meanwhile, Quinton’s still seething in my grip. Foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, looking to take a massive bite out of Adams.

“He had it coming,” Quinton bites, his eyes still two furious balls of blue fire. The hottest flame there is.

“That might be, but you don’t need to escalate the situation,” I hiss, pushing against the boards harder as he fights against my hold. “You might’ve just cost us the damn game with this shit.”

A sneer paints his face. “Nah, Reed. You’re the one who doesn’t want to play like a team, needing to be the star of the show. Telling Coach I never pass you the puck? Turning it over when I finally do? That’s not a team player.”He scoffs. “If we walk away tonight with a loss, that falls on your shoulders. Not mine.”

He’s kidding me, right?I’mthe one not wanting to play as a team?I’mthe one costing us this win?

“You’re delusional.”

He arches his brow as if to askbut am I?

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