Page 2 of Two Guys One Puck
I give him a thumbs up, too tired to talk.
“You going to be able to keep up with him the rest of the game?” Logan asks, sitting on the bench next to where I’m lying.
I nod, closing my eyes.
“Let him be,” Wolfe says. As our goalie and captain, his word shuts everyone else up.
“If we can keep doing what we’re doing, we will win this game. This is a good preview of what we can do if we make it through the Frozen Four to play them again. It is not all wrapped up. They don’t have the championship in the bag.”
I mostly tune out Coach Hawke. I can’t have all of that on my shoulders. I need to just focus on playing and not let Ktytor get to me with all his nicknames and shit.
The break is not long enough, and I’m still red-faced and overheated when we get back on the ice.
Ktytor is different. Like someone gave him speed. He’s got a new burst of energy, and I’m barely keeping up. We’re both usually aggressive with one another, but he’s snapped. Tenminutes in, and he’s already been in the box, which is hard to do as an offensive player, but he’s slamming me into the wall any time he can. My only advantage is having about fifty pounds on him.
“Slowing down, pumpkin pie?” he snarls in my face.
“You fucking wish.” I shove off the wall, but I am tired and hurting.
The last time he hit me, he caught me in the same place I got hit a few days ago. He had to have watched the tape of me getting injured to know. What a cheap fucking shot, and if he didn’t break one of my ribs, they are at least bruised. With every movement they ache, and it’s making me angrier by the second. He knows it, too, because he makes sure to keep jabbing me in the same spot.
“You’re sexy when you’re angry, sunshine.” He snaps his teeth, and my blood boils.
I’m not even skating to try and stop him from scoring anymore. I’m only on the ice to make him as mad as he has me.
I don’t even let him touch the puck.
I’m everywhere.
The third period begins, and I’m at his fucking neck. I might be fantasizing about slitting his throat with one of my skates. But then I’m thrown in the box, and he scores.
Motherfucker. He baited me.
Coach Hawke pulls me out.
“I’m fine.”
“You need a break.”
“No, I don’t.” I’m breathing hard even after sitting in the box for two minutes.
Maybe Coach is right. But he only keeps me out another minute because not even Archangel can keep up with Ktytor.
“I’ve missed you, baby doll.” How is he still so upbeat when I want to strangle him and watch the life leave his eyes?
Does he ever fucking quit?
“I missed you so much. How can I live without preventing you from scoring?”
We’re tied, and I only need to keep him from scoring for another eight minutes to end this fucking game. Not that it matters.
“I love how delusional you are, buttercup.” Why do the pet names sound worse in his fucking accent?
“Try me.”
He pauses, an unusual thing in hockey. “All I have to do is hit your sore spot, and you’ll crumple.”
“So you have to resort to playing dirty to win? I guess that tells you who the better player is.”
