Page 117 of Two Guys One Puck
I let him punch, slipping to the side so his fist barely misses my face while I grab his wrist and arm, throwing my body weight around to get my leg behind his to use his own momentum against him. Like we’ve rehearsed this a dozen times, we spin around, and he goes over my leg, sending him falling backward with me on top.
He slams into the ice, landing on his ass while I come down pretty unscathed on my knees. An old jujitsu technique, and I can’t help but grin because my old man would have loved it.
That doesn’t stop the fight. We half get to our knees, still throwing punches until the refs wrestle us apart.
“What the fuck was that?” he hisses when we’re left to our time in the penalty box.
“Don’t start a fight you can’t finish.” I wipe my bloody mouth with the back of my hand, refusing to look at him.
“Don’t fucking tell me I started this. You came on the ice with one aim. You fucking told me you’d make sure we fought.” Seaborn spits.
“That’s my fucking job. This is hockey, in case you forget what we are all fucking doing here. Or maybe you let your feelings get in the way.”
He laughs. “Says the guy running away from his. Are you too emotional, baby?” The pet name stings. “Can’t handle being called a coward?”
Rage prickles over my skin, and I’m buzzing with it. “And you poked the bear one too many times. That’s what you get, sweetheart.”
“I cannot believe you’re fucking serious.”
“You can’t believe it? You can’t believe I won’t put you in your fucking place. Is part of the rich history of hockey. Stop taking everything so personally.” I can’t let him know he’s getting to me.
“You like jiu jitsu threw me on the fucking ice.” He looks over for the first time, but I avoid his eyes.
“Is your ass bruised again, cupcake? Do you need some ice?”
“Go fuck yourself.” Seaborn shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me. Maybe that hurts more than anything else.
“Isn’t that what you’re trying to do?”
He hisses, and I know I’ve hit a nerve.
I don’t know what my aim is. What the fuck am I even doing?
There is nothing worse than being a coward, and he’s right, I’m being a fucking coward.
THIRTY-SIX
SEABORN
I’ve kept Ktytor shut down since getting out of the box, and we score a goal with two minutes left. Coach Hawke calls a timeout, and I need the break. I’m feeling out of my fucking body, and as I sit on the bench, I realize my hands are shaking.
Their possible win is setting in, and I feel a little lightheaded.
I put my head in my hands.
Was Ktytor fucking right? Had I let everything come between me and the NHL? This all felt like fun, but now it’s real, and I’m losing on every fucking side.
I swallow and press my palm into my eyes, trying to get my heart to calm down, but the anxiety won’t stop. It eats at my throat. It’s just one goal. Our line can make it up. I can shut him down. I don’t know why I’m so worked up.
I take a few labored breaths.
“You okay?” Archangel asks, putting his hand on my shoulder, but his action draws Coach Hawkes’ attention.
“Fine. Perfectly fine,” I lie, avoiding Coach’s gaze.
“Is Ktytor getting to you?” Archangel tightens his grip on my shoulder. “Do you want me to take him for a bit?”
I shake my head. “I just need a minute to breathe.”
