Page 115 of Unrivaled

“You can get me back later.”

When Grady made a vaguely threatening motion with his stick, Max laughed and skated away.

For obvious publicity reasons, Max and Grady took the opening faceoff. The ref eyed them both with the expression of a man facing the gallows. “I don’t suppose I can talk the two of you into a nice clean game.”

“You could try,” Max offered.

Grady chomped his mouthguard and rolled his eyes.

The ref sighed. “That’s what I thought.”

Then the puck dropped.

Max won the faceoff by the skin of his teeth. The crowd roared as he regrouped around Bishop to follow the puck into the offensive zone.

Bishop dropped the pass back to Max, in perfect position to screen his shot. But Grady collided with him before he could pull the trigger.

The impact knocked Max’s breath out of him, but it also made him laugh. Of course. He should’ve expected nothing less. Grady only played to win, even if that meant Max got steamrolled.

It was on.

Max’s shot went wide. A Condors defenseman collected the puck from behind the net, and now Max and his team were chasing.

As Max burned toward the defensive zone with Bishop, something finally clicked. Max had spent almost two weeks on third line waiting for this feeling. Tonight he was getting his first shot at first line, and hebelongedhere.

And by the end of the night, everyone in this arena would know it.

The game got physical fast, not with fights, but with questionable checks and raised elbows. Max kept his head up and his elbows in and didn’t run anyone into the boards, mindful of Barry’s admonition in Winnipeg—Your job here isn’t to draw penalties, it’s to score goals. Don’t get injured. And stay out of the box.

Max stayed out of the box. Damned if he was going to stay out of the box score.

The Condors drew first blood with a goal five minutes in, Grady from Barclay—the one he called Dawg. Instead of letting it ruin his night, Max let it fuel him.

Three shifts later he roofed the puck on a one-timer, and the Fishtank erupted in cheers. Bishop slammed into his side with a whoop and bellowed, “Fresh Fish!”

“BEWARE THE FISH!” the fans chanted. “BEWARE THE FISH!”

Laughter bubbled out of Max’s throat as the sound of it washed over him. Beware the Fish. And he was one of them.

“Nice goal,” Bishop said. “Let’s get another one.”

In the meantime, they had their hands full keeping the Condors from scoring again. Max might be keeping his elbows in and the butt end of his stick to himself, but that didn’t stop him from laying legal hits.

“Hey babe, miss me?” he chirped his usual line as he slammed his body into Grady’s, sweeping his stick out in front to try to get to the puck.

Grady responded with a variation on his own theme. “Maybe if you went away and gave me a chance—” He passed the puck, and Max didn’t have a reason to hang on him anymore.

Not untilafterthe game, anyway.

Grady’s linemate scored again in the middle of the second. Both teams were rolling, and Max could already tell he had half a dozen shiny new bruises. Grady wasn’t the only one who’d laid a hit on him, though Grady’s had probably been the most legal.

Every time Max returned the favor, Barclay gave him the evil eye. Max blew him a kiss.

The Fish tied the game again, and Max added another goal eighty-three seconds later. So he knew, going into the third, that there’d be a target on his back.

Max’s line didn’t play against Grady’s every shift. Nothing in hockey lined up that perfectly. But they played each other often enough for Max to lay another good hit early in the period, two shifts after Grady got away with holding Max’s stick to keep him from taking a pass.

Max couldn’t be mad about it, since it was Grady’s job to get away with it, but hecouldretaliate.

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