Page 33 of Her Name in Red
Their captain, Prescott, has been chirping all night, getting increasingly desperate as the clock ticks down. He's a draft prospect like me, both of us fighting for position in the rankings.
The puck ricochets to the corner, and I'm after it like a heat-seeking missile, throwing my body into St. Andrews winger. We crash into the boards with a sound like a car accident.
The puck clears the zone, buying us a line change. I'm about to head to the bench when I hear Prescott's voice, low and taunting.
“You playing hard for Bloody Mary tonight, Rhodes? Hear she likes it rough.”
My stride breaks. My head snaps around so fast I almost give myself whiplash. “The fuck did you just say?”
Prescott smirks, skating backward. “You heard me. Everyone knows she's making the rounds with the team. Figure I'll get my turn after we win tonight.”
The world narrows to a pinpoint. Everything—the crowd, the game, the score—it all vanishes. There's just Prescott's smug face and the roaring in my ears, like I'm underwater.
“Say her name again,” I dare him, my voice so quiet I barely recognize it. “I fucking dare you.”
Prescott's eyes gleam with the knowledge he's found my trigger. “What, Bloody Mary? That's what everyone calls her, right? For all the?—”
I don't remember dropping my gloves. Don't remember crossing the ten feet of ice between us. One second I'm listening to him talk about Maren like she's some locker room conquest,and the next my fist is connecting with his jaw, the satisfying crunch of bone against bone vibrating up my arm.
Prescott goes down hard, but recovers fast, springing up with his gloves already off. The refs are blowing whistles, but neither of us gives a shit. This isn't hockey anymore. This is primal.
“You're fucking crazy,” he spits, blood spraying from his split lip.
I don't answer. Just launch myself at him again, grabbing fistfuls of his jersey. My knuckles find his face—once, twice, three times—before he manages to land a counter that snaps my head back. Pain explodes across my cheekbone, but it just fuels the fire raging inside me.
We're grappling now, spinning across the ice like some demented dance, the crowd on their feet, howling for blood. I can hear Coach screaming from the bench, but his words don't register. Nothing registers except the need to hurt this motherfucker who dared speak my girl’s fucking name.
Prescott lands a solid right that makes my vision blur. I taste copper, feel hot blood trickling from my nose, but I'm beyond caring. I drive my fist into his ribs, feeling something give way beneath my knuckles. He gasps momentarily stunned, and I seize the advantage, raining down blows until his face is a mess of blood and spit.
They finally manage to separate us, though it takes three of them to pry me off. I'm still lunging against their restraint, blind with rage, when the ref skates over.
“You're done, Rhodes,” he says, face grim.
I'm still seeing red as they escort me off the ice, officials on either side like I'm a fucking criminal. My jersey's half-ripped off, blood dripping from my knuckles, leaving tiny crimson splatters on the ice. The crowd is going absolutely apeshit—most of them cheering, a few booing—but it all sounds like white noise through the pounding in my ears.
Coach is purple-faced at the bench, screaming something about “losing your fucking mind” and “championship season,” but I can't bring myself to care. Not when Prescott's words are still echoing in my head.Bloody Mary. Making the rounds.
The penalty box is too good for me. I've earned a game misconduct, maybe a suspension. Five minutes for fighting, another two for instigating, and a ten-minute misconduct that'll keep me out until the third period at least. If Coach even lets me back on the ice.
“Straight to the locker room, Rhodes,” the ref barks, pointing toward the tunnel. “You're most likely done for the night.”
I spit a mouthful of blood onto the ice, not bothering to argue.
The crowd noise fades as I stomp down the tunnel, my skate guards making hollow plastic clicks against the concrete. My breath comes in ragged gasps, sweat pouring down my face, mixing with blood from the cut on my cheek. My knuckles throb, raw and split open. Coach is going to crucify me for this. The scouts in the stands are probably already crossing my name off their lists.
And I can't bring myself to give a single fuck.
Because there she is.
Standing in the shadows of the tunnel like she materialized from my darkest thoughts. Maren. The St. James cheerleading uniform a splash of crimson, white and black against the concrete walls, a blood-red ribbon holding her dark ponytail high and tight. But it's the #13 painted on her cheek in black that stops me dead in my tracks. My number. She's wearing my fucking number.
She's leaning against the wall, one leg bent with her foot pressed flat against the concrete, arms crossed over her chest. Watching me with eyes that see straight through my bullshit.
“Guess I missed the memo about tonight being UFC night instead of hockey,” she says, voice low and amused.
I slow my pace, heart hammering in my chest for reasons that have nothing to do with the fight or the game. The tunnel suddenly feels too small, too hot, too everything with her in it.
“What the fuck are you doing back here?” I demand, my voice still rough from screaming on the ice.
