Page 70 of Shift Change

Chuck’s outburst may have turned me upside down, but it had been what the Warriors needed to break out of our Seattle-inspired funk. We’d gone into the third period down 2–1, but when the buzzer sounded at the end of the game, we’d turned that around. Warriors 3, Cohos 2.

I was one of the last to leave the ice, and by the time I arrived in the locker room, it was total chaos. Chuck sat in his stall with his hand buried in a bucket of ice, surrounded like a king in the middle of a mosh pit. The guys were packed in around him, climbing over each other to get close. I didn’t even bother trying to reach my stall, which was right next to his, because there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I’d get through.

Logan was up front, his eyes wide with adrenaline. “Damn, Dog. I’ve never seen anyone fight like that. Way to go.”

“Hell yes!” Riley, standing next to Logan, shouted. “Do you give boxing lessons, or was that a one-time demo?”

Abby muscled his way into the circle and scrubbed his knuckles across Chuck’s head like a proud older brother. “You’re even better than I thought. You play hockey like Russian.”

Harpy, who must have seen the whole thing on TV, pushed his way through the crowd. “You okay, man?” He nodded toward Chuck’s hand. “Can I see?”

Chuck pulled his hand out of the ice, and holy shit—it was swollen and red, with cuts across his knuckles, probably from Messer’s teeth.

“Looks worse than it feels,” Chuck said. “The trainer did an X-ray. Nothing’s broken.”

“That’s a goddamn miracle,” Packy said from behind me. “Let Holky through, boys. He needs to sit, and I’m sure he wants to talk to Dog.”

Heads turned in my direction. Chuck’s eyes found mine, and he gave me a small, uncertain smile.

Shit. Does he think I’m mad?

The guys parted to let me through, and I dropped into the seat beside Chuck, on the opposite side from Harpy. It took a second to shift into Holky mode and find something he’d say, not Nate. I rested my hand on Chuck’s knee. “Dog, like I’ve said before, you’re a fucking menace.” I grinned. “Thanks for what you did out there. Seriously, it means a lot.”

Our gazes locked, and I lost myself in his eyes. When they pulled him off Messer, he’d been a sight with his wild eyes and fists still clenched. He searched the ice like nothing would settle until he saw me standing upright. Now, the rage was gone, but something deeper lingered. Relief, for sure, but a glow that hit me low and hard. My throat tightened, and my vision blurred. I swallowed it all because I couldn’t say any of the things I needed to while we were here.

Chuck’s lips curled into a small, almost hesitant smile, and I answered with one of my own. My ROD friend, my linemate, my man. He was amazing.

The moment shattered when Criswell’s voice barked down the hall: “Madison! My office, now!”

Chuck blinked but kept his eyes on mine. “Don’t be a dick, okay? Wait for me.”

I snorted. “Jesus, Dog. That means I’ll have to hang around while they bandage your hand too.” I shook my head. “You’re high maintenance, but I guess I owe you, seeing how you threw down for me like I was your prom date.”

It was our usual banter, the kind we tossed around for the sake of the guys, but even I could hear how awkward it sounded.

Chuck stood. “Let me out, boys. Time to get yelled at. Hope he doesn’t ship my ass back to Syracuse.”

I smacked his butt as he walked by. “No worries. I’ll kick his ass if he tries.”

The door swung shut behind him, and I enjoyed the unusual silence until I realized no one was moving. The guys just stood there grinning. All of them.

Mad Dog

Criswell wasn’t alone. He’d left his office door open, and Hart—the offensive coach—was in there with him. I knocked, and Criswell motioned me in.

“Close the door,” he said, then gestured toward a chair. “Sit.”

He was perched on the edge of his desk, and Hart stood nearby with his arms folded. Neither of them said anything, and since I didn’t want to sit there bouncing my knee and wringing my hands, I looked around. Criswell’s real office was at the practice facility. This room was a place for him to conduct business at the arena, so there were only a few papers scattered across the top of his desk. Trophies gleamed on a set of shelves, and the rest of the room was taken up by a small conference table, a beige couch, and a matching chair.

“Madison!”

I snapped my head around to look at Criswell, who had me fixed in a squinty scowl. “I’ve seen rookies pull all kinds of shit. Sneaking out of hotels, getting so drunk after a game that they’re still disabled the next day, even bringing girls to practice. One took the GM’s car for the day, and I had to grovel to keep the front office from calling the police.”

“Yes, sir.” I hated how weak my voice sounded.

“But I have never seen a rookie be so goddamn reckless in the middle of a fucking game. I believe I understand why it set you off the way it did, but there is a thing called self-control, and most adults use it. We are not a team of thugs. We don’t play hockey that way. Do you realize that fight could’ve gone wrong in a hundred ways, each one worse than the last? You could have gotten the team sanctioned. Hell, you could have ended up injailif you’d really hurt Messer. The only reason I don’t think you’ll face discipline from the league is because Messer made such a big show of skating away under his own steam and flipping off everybody in the arena.”

“Yes, sir.”

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