Page 116 of Unrivaled

He just didn’t expect to turn half a second later and find Barclay’s fist zooming toward his face.

Max dodged the first wild punch. Barclay was clearly an inexperienced fighter, because he’d left his gloves on and his footing sucked. But now his gloves came off and he grabbed the sleeve of Max’s jersey with his left hand and swung again.

A solid part of Max’s career had been built on his ability to take punches. Normally, though, he got more warning, and his opponents were players his own size and not teenagers who were 97 percent hormones by volume, and too hotheaded to give their opponents time to drop their gloves.

Max might not have the same soft hands as Grady, but they worked a hell of a lot better when his fingers weren’t broken. He preferred not to test them on other people’s faces—especially not guys like Howard Barclay, who’d grown out of his baby fat without growing into the ability to build muscle. If Max hit him, he’d go down like a sack of potatoes.

The second punch caught the side of Max’s jaw and knocked off his helmet.

Somewhere a whistle blew. Max knew the linesmen were making a beeline for them, ready to break up the fight.

But he recognized the fury in Barclay’s eyes, and he’d need a couple teammates to pull him back. Meanwhile, Max didn’t want a concussion.

So he shucked his own gloves and twisted his arm out of Barclay’s grasp. For the first time, reality intruded on whatever was going on in the kid’s mind. Max saw theoh shitflash in his eyes.

Then he grabbed the front of Max’s jersey instead, and fine, he asked for it. At least he still had his helmet on. Max hooked an ankle behind the kid’s leg, knocked him to the ice on his back, and then followed him down in an undignified heap.

“You fucking asshole!” Barclay shouted. “You piece of shit!”

What the fuck. “Simmer down, kid.” What did Max do?

Barclay was still trying to hit him, though with Max essentially sitting on him, the blows landed against his pads. It probably hurt Barclay more than Max.

It felt like an eternity passed before they separated, with the bewildered linesmen helping Max up while a couple of Barclay’s teammates held his arms and tried to talk him down. One of them was Grady, who was bleeding from the nose.

“Did I do that?” Max asked under his breath as the ref sent Barclay down the tunnel. That would explain part of why Barclay went apeshit.

With a grimace, Grady swiped away some of the blood. “No, which is why you’re not in the box.”

Max blinked at him. Why was he so pissed off? “So then how….”

Grady pressed his lips together in a thin line. “Watch the replay.”

So he was definitely pissed. Fantastic.

At least the game was almost over.

The refs called three more penalties in the last eight minutes, but the outcome didn’t change—the Piranhas pulled out a 3–2 victory. Max hardly took any satisfaction in it. What had just happened didn’t make any sense.

Somehow he managed to answer a handful of media questions after the game. By the time he’d showered and dressed, the rest of the team was making plans to go out to celebrate.

Max took advantage of their planning to send a message to Grady.R u ok? wtf was that with ur captain?

Grady hadn’t replied by the time Bishop ruffled Max’s hair and said, “You’re coming. Hero of the hour and all that.”

He should. A little hometown team bonding would be good for him, and it might stop him from obsessing over his phone all night.

“Obviously.”

“Nice. Baller found this new place—”

It figured that Baller had become the de facto social coordinator.

Max made the most of his night out. A little alcohol, a few ridiculous stories, rookies being rookies, good music, and good atmosphere should have had him feeling fine. He didn’t have to put on a show for these guys; they were young and fun and had Baller for that. Max only had to sip his beer and follow along and laugh when the occasion called for it, which was often because Baller was kind of a drama queen.

But he couldn’t entirely keep the situation with Grady out of his mind, and he kept checking his phone. Finally, a little over an hour after Max had texted, Grady sent,I’m fine. It’s a long story. Talk to you tomorrow?

Max released a breath, but the knot in his shoulders didn’t go with it. He wished Grady had used a different word thanfine. He wished Grady would just talk to him now so he could stop worrying about it. Not that Max was in a very good place to talk, between the alcohol and the volume in the bar.

---