Page 160 of Slew Foot
Rafe’s stomach tightened with anticipation.
He carried the eager anticipation into the next period but moments after the puck dropped for the faceoff, Mirsad Renner, one of New York’s defensemen, collided with Connor and left him lying on the ice, clutching his shoulder, his skin bleached white with pain.
“Fuck!” Rafe swore as he skated over to his captain. “Are you okay?”
Connor rolled onto the uninjured side and made it to his knees, swearing a blue streak as Rafe helped him to his feet. “No,” he said between gritted teeth.
And well … that had probably been a stupid question.
Connor skated off to the bench, still clutching his shoulder and went straight down the tunnel.
There was a bellow behind Rafe, and he turned in time to see Jesse crash into Mirsad Renner. For a moment, Rafe stared as Jesse grappled with the guy, both of them toppling to the ground. Rafe had never seen a goalie go apeshit like that before, not likethat, but it had a been a bad hit from the New York defenseman on his boyfriend and, well, Rafe couldn’t blame him.
And oh fuck, Renner’s teammates hadn’t taken kindly to it because they were pulling Jesse off and … Rafe skated toward the tussle as Jesse started swinging. Rafe pulled one of the New York players away and grappled with him. Rafe wasn’t much of a fighter, but he was tall and he had a good reach, managing to grab the front of the guy’s jersey and duck as the guy took a swing at him.
The guy was shouting something—maybe about Jesse being a crazy fucker?—and Rafe had managed to land an awkward punch on the guy’s jaw when a linesman dragged him away.
Panting, Rafe struggled against the grip, nearly deafened by the screaming and hollering that had erupted from the crowd. He could see Coach Hoyt shouting something from the bench, but he didn’t have a clue what he was saying over the noise.
Graham was the alternate captain, and with Connor out, it was his job to talk to the refs. To Rafe’s surprise, Mickey went over too. It took a while to sort everything out, but in the end, penalties were assigned to both teams. Crawford went to the box in lieu of Jesse, since goalies weren’t allowed to serve their own penalties.
Rafe got a penalty too, which seemed like total bullshit to him, but he went to the box along with Crawford.
A moment later, the glass beside them rattled. “Hey, Crawford!” a guy called out. “That was weak. I’ve seen better hands on a digital clock.”
Rafe glanced over to see who was talking but no one was looking at the penalty box.
Crawford didn’t even look that direction as he called back, “Hey, you might want to stop trying to think of an original chirp there, bud. I’m starting to smell smoke.”
Rafe smothered a laugh but Crawford scowled.
“Fucking New Yorkers. I hate playing here. That guy over there in the vintage Rockets jersey never fuckin’ stops with the chirping. Every fucking game. I swear he has it out for me.”
Rafe snorted. “Like you aren’t even worse to their players.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t count when I’m the one doing it, remember?” Crawford winked and bared his teeth, the missing one giving him a slightly ghoulish smile.
Rafe laughed.
A moment later, the fan fired another chirp back, with Crawford deflecting it without even looking again. Remembering Crawford’s description that he was wearing a vintage jersey, Rafe glanced around to see if he could find the guy.
Rafe spotted the New York fan immediately, the old design impossible to miss. He seemed pretty normal to Rafe, to be honest. He was about Rafe’s age, or maybe a few years older.
Good-looking, with dark curly hair and heavy stubble.
The guy glanced over and met his gaze. He looked Rafe over for a moment. He didn’t smile but he didn’t glare or say anything before he turned back to the woman he sat next to.
He seemed pretty chill right now, actually.
Rafe shrugged and reached for a towel to polish his visor with. Well, maybe he just hated Crawford. Honestly, with as much of an asshole as he could be on the ice, Rafe couldn’t blame the guy.
He had to laugh though as Crawford and the Rockets fan traded insults back and forth throughout the period while Crawford’s gaze never left the ice.
Rafe watched too, swearing when New York got off a shot during their power play, bringing the score to 3-2.
Rafe was stepping out of the box when the guy called out again, “Hey, Crawford, I would call you a tool but that’d imply you’re useful.”
“Ahh fuck you, man, I’ve heard better chirps from a dead bird,” Crawford shot back as he followed Rafe onto the ice.
