Page 28 of Defensive Zone

I reach over and squeeze his bicep. “Thank you. For listening to me ramble and giving me solid advice.”

“Anytime, brother.” He grins, slapping my shoulder. “It’s time to put Carter to the back of your mind for now because we’ve got a game to win.”

“We cannot let them get the better of us,” Ethan states, pacing the locker room floor. He hasn’t sat down since we trudged back here after the first period. He’s like a caged lion, fists clenched at his sides, angry and ready for the attack.

Washington is sitting just below us in overall standings, and while Vancouver is a team I enjoyed playing against, Washington is one I dislike the most. They have come to fight tonight, literally, and they’re not afraid to get a little dirty. Something Blaine’s learned firsthand, as he’s already received two penalties, and I wouldn’t put it past the refs not to make them his last.

The hits are always harder. More intentional. We might be in different divisions and conferences, but we’re still competition.

They want to hurt us, and they will try anything to get under our skin and make us crumble.

“If Volkov comes near me one more time, I’m going to punch him.” Blaine grunts.

“That’s what he wants,” Peyton replies. “Don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting to you. Do you think Alex will want you to go home with your pretty little face all bruised up?”

Blaine grumbles something about how it would make him feel better and how Alex will nurse him back to health anyway.

My gaze flicks to Elliot, who has been surprisingly silent the entire time. He’s staring at the floor, his mouth open slightly. He’s in a trance, and it seems everyone knows not to disturb him. He’s been on fire tonight, stopping shot after shot, and considering he’s only let in two out of twenty shots on goal, he’s playing incredibly.

When we get back out onto the ice for the second period, it continues to be fast-paced and all action. We’re racking up penalty minutes quicker than Coach can tell us to keep our heads in the game. Despite the words of wisdom Peyton gave Blaine not long ago, Peyton found himself watching from the penalty box after getting a double minor penalty for roughing and instigation. At least when Blaine gets his third penalty of the night for tripping, he’s not alone in there.

It definitely seems the refs have it out for us tonight because they’ve allowed Washington to get away with almost every call.

The tension is building up on the bench too. The anger radiating off Ethan is palpable. His dark eyes are menacing while he tracks the puck as the second line fights for possession. He’s dangerous when he gets this worked up, and I feel sorry for whichever player is brave enough to provoke him—I definitely wouldn’t want to be on the other side of Ethan Parkes’s aggression when it’s unleashed.

The bench begins to vibrate as his leg starts bouncing. He’s just as eager to get back out onto the ice as I am, and the second we hear the video game power-up-style chime signaling the end of Blaine’s penalty, we make a quick line change to join Blaine out on the ice.

The next two minutes go scoreless, and one of Washington’s wingers cross checks Peyton the second he steps out of the penalty box, and it goes uncalled by the refs. Again.

“This is such bullshit,” Kendrick snaps, hitting his stick so hard on the top of the board in rage that it snaps in two.

It is, but there’s nothing we can do about it except try to keep our heads cool. Judging by the smart-ass grins they’re sporting on the bench, Washington is succeeding in what they wanted to achieve.

Riling us up.

I’m back on the ice in time to take possession of the puck as it goes sailing up toward the defensive zone. I’m aware that Mueller, one of Washington’s defensemen, is breathing down my neck, but I know Kendrick is clear for the pass. I hit it around the back of the net, and I shift on my skates to turn, but Mueller isn’t stopping. He hits me with such force, I’m lifted off the ice. He slams me hard into the boards, my head bouncing off the ledge of the boards like a pinball. A shooting pain rips up my arm from where my wrist is crushed beneath me, and the bright lights of the arena are the last thing I remember before I fall and my head hits the ice.

Suddenly, everything goes black.

Chapter Ten

Carter

Zach isn’t moving. Why isn’t he moving?

It’s like time is standing still as the arena goes eerily silent. So silent, I can hear Elliot call Zach’s name in a panicked shout as he rips off his helmet and throws his stick down onto the ice. His glove and blocker are next, and he skates over to where Zach is lying face down in the corner and drops to his knees, shielding his unmoving body.

“Hurry the fuck up!” Elliot shouts over to the bench, and chills ripple across my body.

Blaine’s next to Elliot, manically waving his hand for attention. Jackson Wilde skates over to the bench, lending an arm to help the Thunder trainer, Joe, as he hurries across the ice with his medical bag. The paramedics are waiting at an open door behind the goal, ready to jump into action if needed.

Please get up, I inwardly beg.

I can tell Ethan’s torn between wanting to smash his fist into Mueller’s face and protecting Zach. The hit was completelyunnecessary. Everyone saw that at the speed Mueller was skating, it wasn’t just going to be a simple case of boarding. It was intentional. He wanted to hurt Zach.

No doubt it’ll be investigated, but right now, the sole focus is on making sure Zach is okay.

Joe crouches down by Zach’s head, and the rest of the boys create a shield around him, allowing enough space for him to work. Even Washington’s trainer rushes over the ice with the aid of their captain.

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