Page 1 of Cross Check Christmas
1
HENDRIX
The crowd roars—half cheering, half booing as I slam into another player, sending him sprawling across the ice.
Someone sends me a rude gesture from the opposing bench.
I flash them a grin and skate backward, searching for my next target. The puck's somewhere in play but honestly, I'm having too much fun introducing these guys to the glass. Coach keeps telling me to focus more on scoring, but where's the joy in that?
Another opposing forward tries to sneak past me with the puck. Bad move, buddy. I line him up perfectly and—WHAM! His helmet bounces off the plexiglass like a pinball. Clean hit, textbook perfect, but the ref's whistle shrills through the air anyway.
"Two minutes, roughing!"
"Are you kidding me?" I throw my hands up. "That was cleaner than my grandmother's kitchen floor!"
The ref points to the box. I make a show of rolling my eyes and skating over, trying not to smile too much. The penalty box feels like my second home at this point—I should really bring in some throw pillows, maybe hang some art on the walls.
"Having fun in there, Ellis?" Coach Knight’s voice carries from the bench. His mustache twitches.
"Five-star accommodation." I stretch out my legs, making myself comfortable. "Great view of the ice. Could use a mini-fridge though."
The penalty box attendant shakes his head, but I catch him hiding a smile. I've spent enough time in here to know most of them by name. This one's Dave—great guy, has three kids and makes a mean chocolate chip cookie. Not that I should be eating that stuff in season.
"Third time tonight, Ellis. Going for some kind of record?"
"Just spreading the love." I wink at him. "Everyone deserves a Hendrix Ellis Special at least once in their career."
From here, I have the perfect view of the chaos I've created on the ice. Two guys are still arguing about my hit, another's getting helped to the bench, and Coach is turning that special shade of purple which means I'll be doing extra skating drills tomorrow.
Worth it. Every single second.
From my front-row seat in the penalty box, I watch Griffin make another impossible save. Our goalie's like a wall—if walls could do splits and catch pucks with their teeth.
"Time's up, sunshine." Dave opens the door and I leap back onto the ice.
Owen's got the puck, dancing through defenders like they're traffic cones. Show-off.
"Ellis! Stop admiring Jablonski's footwork and get in position!" Coach bellows from the bench.
Right. Position. I'm technically supposed to be playing right wing, but there's this huge defenseman who's been eyeing Owen all night, and he's just asking to meet the boards.
Sawyer flies past me, his long blonde hair so drenched in sweat, it's plastered to his neck. "Rix! Stop playing defense and get in position!"
"But mom, I'm having fun!"
I spot my target lumbering toward Owen. "Hold that thought."
I take off across the ice. The defenseman never sees me coming—they never do. The crash echoes through the arena as we collide. He goes down hard, and I swear I hear Coach groan from here.
"Dude," Owen laughs as he skates past with the puck. "You're supposed to be covering me!"
"I am covering you! By removing every threat within a ten-mile radius."
Owen scores—because of course he does—and I use the celebration as cover to check another guy into the boards. Just a love tap, really. Barely even knocked his mouthguard out.
"Ellis!" Coach Knight's voice could strip paint. "Get your ass in position or I'm benching you!"
"Fine, fine." I skate to my spot, but not before shouting to my latest victim, "Call me! We'll do lunch!"
