Page 37 of Break The Ice

Raider is a fan favourite. He’s their defender. I can see the questions as the news spreads. They stop focusing on the game, the warm up, and focus on our missing defender.

Ramirez and I lock eyes. I pull my helmet on and send puck after puck at the crease. Bruce spits a few curses at me, but between Raider’s removal, the team’s sense of betrayal, and his new position taking over from Sellars, our goalie is shitting bricks. He needs the warm up.

We practice for another few minutes and then go to the bench where we listen to the coach and assistant coach piss out some prepackaged bullshit speech about teamwork and sacrifice.

The entire team is simmering. With seventeen alphas on the side and the rest betas, our tempers are heading into dangerous territory. A hockey team is a pack, whether we have bonds or not, we are a pack. And we respond to threats to our pack with all the alpha violence that is our natures.

I glance at Ramirez, who has his jaw locked. In hockey, the strongest alpha is captain because only he can temper the team. A good captain can keep a balance, a bad one can ruin a side.

Ramirez has all the makings of a good alpha, but even he might not be able to calm the storm that is about to unfold.

The umpires skate up and talk to the coach, gesturing to Raider.

“He needs to be in his jumper,” is the only thing I hear clearly.

The team bristles.

Raider simply leans back, spreads his legs, and looks as if the whole thing is supremely boring.

“Raider-” Wesley starts, but Locklean stands up, blocking the assistant coach from getting to Raider.

“Walk away,” Locklean says in a low voice. Our massive enforcer is all muscle and quiet threat. He’s the nicest guy off the ice, but, on it, he brings hell.

Wesley backs down immediately.

“Let's go play a game. We’re going to win for our brother, and, then after, get him back on the ice!” Ramirez says loudly. He turns to the umpire and stares at him, daring him to continue this pointless argument.

The umpire glances at Raider once more, and then wisely decides to back off.

We line up, going through the formalities. Bruce is beside me, looking like he might be sick.

“You’ll be fine, Bruce,” I murmur.

He gives me a weak smile before focusing on the next player. I glance at the bench. Raider’s face is expressionless, but the rage and pain inside him is clear to me.

So clear.

I daze out for the pregame rituals, and then I find myself on the other side of a face-off circle, glaring at some hockey guy wearing crimson. We’re in the center of the ice, bent over our sticks, about to clash in an explosion of power, skill, and reflexes. He’s got a lot of freckles and a slightly crooked nose. I search my memory, but I can’t for the life of me remember his name. Raider would know. He knows all the players.

I notice it all, intensely. Suddenly, it’s so damn clear. My breath is loud in my ears, and the scent of the ice is strong. I love the feel of the chill in the air, the smell that tells me I’m home.

But I feel the absence of Raider like a missing limb. It’s an itch that is driving me crazy. Without Raider on the ice with me, the enjoyment fades and doesn’t quite feel as good. Was half my love of hockey just getting to play against him?

The puck drops, and we’re off. I push hard, shoving freckles out of my way, slapping the puck hard and sending it to Evans. We skate fiercely. Uriel slams the right winger of the Titans into the boards, holding him there. Hoffsfield flicks the puck to me, and I snatch it up, putting all of my power into sending myself speeding towards the goalie.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot their huge defender. I won’t have a chance to take a shot, so I slap it down the ice and brace myself. In the next second, I’m slammedinto the boards, the defender throwing all his weight into me and even digging in an elbow. I grit my teeth and hold on, struggling, trying to free myself.

But he’s yanked off. He throws a punch, and Yasiv answers it. And that sets the tone of this game.

I’m angry. We’re tied.The team is on the verge of violence, and the game is stretching on forever. I look up into the stands and see her. In the ocean of green and thousands of fans, I see her.

I don’t know how I spot her. Idly, I wonder if in a crowd of a million I’d still find her.

I reach out and grip Raider’s thigh and jerk my chin in her direction. She’s making her way towards us, Kit and Callan at her heels.

Kit is struggling, I can see it, but my heart expands as I watch him elbow the crowds back, fighting to stay close to her.

Wesley drops a hand on my shoulder before moving off. My body tightens, preparing mentally for the moment. I launch onto the ice as Marx clatters back onto the bench, breathing hard. Chasing the puck, sweeping in to steal it, it’s the same. I love it, but I’m bored. Our sticks clash, the roar of the crowd, it all fades away.

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