Page 97 of Playoff

Oops.

I don’t have time to feel bad because he’s swinging like a lunatic and my control finally snaps.

I grab his jersey right on his chest right below the shoulder, and twist, tightening it up so his wild swings aren’t making any serious contact. We’re both pushing and pulling, shaking each other up a bit. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on around me, but I see at least one other fight in my peripheral vision. And the refs haven’t gotten to us yet, which means there’s a lot going on.

Suddenly I realize he either forgot his fight strap, or it came loose in the scuffle, because his jersey is riding up.

I take full advantage and yank as hard as I can, tugging the jersey over his head. He’s still trying to swing, but now he can’t see and I force him to his knees. I’m not the guy who’s going to throw someone without a helmet onto the ice so I just keep pushing him sideways until the ref finally comes over and gets between us.

The crowd has gone wild, players on the bench from both teams are tapping their sticks, yelling encouragement, and there’s a lot of pandemonium as the refs try to figure out who did what and assess penalties.

I shake my head and skate back toward the bench, catching Rowan’s eye as I do.

And she’s smiling.

Not the sexy, flirty smiles we share when we’re alone, but a full-on this-is-fucking-great smile.

There’s only three minutes left in the game, and Ivan, Canyon, and I are all in the box, serving four for fighting. However, Vegas winds up with the extra two minutes since theirdefenseman instigated against Ivan. We end the game with a power play, and wind up winning 4-3.

Things are wild in the locker room too, since the sports books and oddsmakers all had Vegas winning the series in six.

Take that, you fuckers.

I don’t have time to think about anything because I’m immediately surrounded by reporters. The press corps has been pretty interested in me throughout the playoffs so far, but tonight they’re going hardcore.

“Blake, are you going back to Phoenix at the end of the season?” someone calls out.

“Well, I live there,” I quip, “so yeah. I’ll have to go back one way or another.”

Asshole.

Trying to get me into trouble or to say something I shouldn’t.

“Blake, what’s next for you?” someone else asks.

“Game seven,” I reply.

Everyone chuckles.

“What’s different about this series?” someone else asks. “Compared to the Blizzard.”

“Different teams, different city, different vibe,” I respond. “Every team, hell, every game, is different. You can’t compare. Alaska is a great team. This year, we were better. Vegas is a tough team full of really talented players—and we’re going to battle it out to the end.”

“Can you tell us anything about a rumor that you’re going to Boston?” someone asks.

I momentarily freeze.

Mother. Fucker.

Did Anson actually let that drop?

Jesus.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say. “All I’m thinking about is game seven. Nothing else exists until thisseries is over. Thanks, guys.” I turn and almost run to the showers.

What the fuck just happened?

THIRTY-ONE

---