Page 6 of These Wicked Games
I should be wearing that jersey.
That should be my fucking team!
I hate these thoughts, but I can’t help the raw envy that fills me during games like this. I love their jerseys, always have. I even usedto have one that said “Ostrander” on the back when I was young. Tripp even autographed it for me when I got signed to the Titans.
I do like ours as well. Our Otters’ logo is in the middle, glaring menacingly. They aren’t as nasty as vipers, but otters can be vicious little creatures when they want to be, and when I see Andre . . . oh, do I want to be.
Our jerseys are a seafoam green with brown and white trim. Mine has a C proudly on the front, and there are some days I can’t believe I’m captain. All the hard work was worth it.
I just wish it had paid off sooner, for my mother.
Head in the game.
We have three minutes at the end of the third period. We’re four and four. For the most part I’ve been able to ignore Andre. Most of my guys are a bit winded, and it’s been a nasty game, which was to be expected. The ref comes over; he’s been a real asshole this entire game. It’s always a crapshoot who we get, but Callum McNeal is known for his biases and pissy attitude. It’s not the first, second, or last time I’ve fought his calls. Right now we’re on Vipers’ home ice and he’s a Virginia native. He’s been calling penalties for minor shit while letting the home team get away with murder.
Rome Acciari, notorious dickhead and defensemen for the Vipers, knocked Atlas into the boards from behind. He didn’t even have the puck! There was a moment when he went down that I didn’t think he’d get back up. My best friend, Grey, threw off his gloves and went after Rome, and got a five-minute major for fighting. Bullshit! Rome did that shit on purpose. He’s known to go for the cheap shots and somehow seems to only get minors for roughing. Callum is supposed to be impartial, but most of this game he’s felt very, very fucking partial.
I look to my left. Understanding flows between Grey and me.
I bend, with my stick ready, glaring straight at the puck and shutting out the rest of the bullshit. The puck drops and I move fast, gaining the advantage over Knox Morrow, the Vipers’ captain. We shove and push, I slap the puck down Grey’s way. Jolting forward, I get knocked over, but catch myself before I tumble to the ice. We’ve played a pretty aggressive game, but I’m getting real fucking tired of being shoved around. While my rivalry with Andre is legendary at this point, our team has played like this ever since I got signed. We were at the bottom of our conference, then worked our asses off to get to the top. Now we’re number one in our division, just like the Vipers are at the top of theirs. Andre and I aren’t the only two with a feud on this team, though.
Knox, the Vipers’ captain, and my winger Colton Montague have a feud that’s decades old. I’m not sure where it started, or what happened, but it’s almost as vicious as Andre’s and mine. Rumorhas it Colton’s little brother Brandon has his sights set on going pro, and just got accepted into Liberty State in New York to play for the Hornets.
I drown out all the noise, watching Grey slap the puck to Atlas, who slaps it backward to Ryker, one of my defensemen. Ivan Vasiliev, my winger and our resident brawler, skates past me before an opponent knocks him onto the ice, clipping him with his stick.
Big man fall hard.
At least six seven, he crashes onto the ice.
I skate by the ref, hands out . . . What the fuck! Fucking tripping! I hear our coach yell from the benches, but they don’t call shit. God forbid he does his job. Atlas flies toward the puck, his speed impressive. While he’s my D-man, I know he could easily slide into any role. He’s one of the fastest skaters in the league. Atlas pummels a guy into the boards, slapping the puck away from him to me. My gaze tunnels. All other thoughts leave me, and I see nothing but net. I shoot, skating too fast. Andre comes far out of the crease, jutting his stick out.
My skate catches. I tumble over it, knocking into the crease and dislodging his net.
Motherfucker.
With shaky hands I lift myself up, anger vibrating my chest. I throw my gloves down and grab Andre by the jersey. “You fucking prick.” Andre tosses his stick, grabbing me back. We’re swarmed, like bees to their threatened hive.
Yeah yeah. I get it. Don’t touch the goalie.
I feel tugging at my jersey but my rage and strength is too great. My guys come to help me, yanking off Vipers left and right. I knock Andre’s helmet off. His long brown curly hair spills fromhis helmet, and he swings, connecting with my helmet, knocking it off too. We tug and pull. I swing, connecting with his face with a crunch. “Fuck off, Oli!” he screams at me, blood pouring down his face. “Watch where you’re fucking skating!”
“You fucking tripped me, you prick!” I swing again. Andre ducks, grabbing me. We fall on the ice. I’m still swinging, connecting. I see that bump on his nose, the one I put there all those years ago. Andre pushes me back, punching just as hard. The pain barely registers. We’re swarmed from above, but all I see is him. Someone is trying to pull me off, but I’m unmovable on top of him, swinging as he blocks each punch and then connects his own.
Suddenly I’m yanked backwards with a force I didn’t think these spineless refs were capable of. Breathing heavily, I glare at Andre. His skin is slick with sweat, his face flushed, making the freckles that sprinkle across his nose stand out. Blood drips from his eyebrow and it’s now I taste the tang of blood in my mouth. He’s breathing just as hard as me.
“Fuck you!” I scream at him.I am so getting ejected.
I’m taken back to all those years ago, and as much as I hate it, I’m more hurt than I’ll admit. The pain still lingers. It’s a hurt that’s ingrained in me. He was my best friend. The one person I counted on. He knew my mother, he knew how much getting signed meant to me.
And he fucked me over.
His hazel eyes waver as he shakes his head, grabbing his helmet and running his fingers through his hair before piling it all back into his helmet. A couple of his teammates skate over to check on him. Calming a bit, I wait for my sentence. Grey skates over to me, shaking his head. “You couldn’t keep it together long enough for usto win this game?” I bark out a laugh, looking up at the jumbotron. Fuck! We have less than two minutes and I am definitely serving a major, or worse.
We wait, and I skate over to the ref to argue my case, knowing it’s a lost cause. I was tripped, and I hate Andre. That should be reason enough to punch his stupid face. Callum seems unimpressed with my pleading, though, skating over to the center line and calling a five-minute major for fighting. Alright, could be worse. Guess I’m out for the rest of the game. “Are you serious? He fucking tripped him!” Atlas yells at the ref.
Ah, my mouthy other best friend, always having my back.
Without any emotion, the ref guides me to the penalty box like a child who was just caught drawing on the walls. He grabs the sleeve of my jersey. I yank free. “Don’t touch me,” I snarl.
