Page 48 of The Wildest One
At home.
Beck hadn’t reached out to ask if I would be in town. We hadn’t even spoken since LA had lost the conference finals at the end of last season.
I didn’t want the silence.
I also didn’t want to bother him or bombard him with messages.
When he hadn’t replied, something had told me that was the end of us. Not that there had been an us, but the effort on both sides had been exhausted, and we were accepting that whatever happened, happened, and it wouldn’t be happening again.
But he was coming here to play, and he knew my dad had season tickets. I was sure he knew that if I was in town, I would be there.
I rested my elbows on my desk, my hands going over my face.
But after the news I just heard …will I be there?
ELEVEN
Beck
The sound of the siren signaled the end of the game, but not a single one of my teammates left the ice. The only movement was Landon, who skated away from his goalpost to join the five of us near the center line, where Boston’s third string and goalie were waiting on the other side.
Both teams were staring each other down.
I could feel the fight brewing, my skin tingling at the thought of hitting someone.
I could see it in the eyes of my teammates, the tension building with each one of their breaths. The anger, on both sides, hitting a peak.
Boston had made us look like a bunch of amateurs tonight. We couldn’t do a goddamn thing right.
We hadn’t fallen apart. That would have meant we’d started off strong and dissolved over time, and that certainly wasn’t the case. From the moment this game had begun three periods ago, we weren’t able to find a rhythm, and there was no sync between any of the lines; we’d looked like a group of novice figure skaters, cleaning the ice with our fucking asses.
“Break it up, boys.” The ref, who should be leaving the rink, came over and positioned himself between the teams, his arms outstretched. “Back off. Now!”
He was quickly joined by a second ref and a third, but their presence was barely noticed, as there was so much shit talking going down between each team.
For us, it was because LA didn’t lose.
If it happened due to the other team being better than us, that was one thing. But Boston wasn’t better, even though tonight had been a shutout, and we weren’t taking the defeat well at all.
“Take your asses to the locker room,” one of the refs threatened. He skated to my side. “Weston, bring your guys in right now.” His hand was on my arm, shaking me, attempting to get me to react to him. “The league will fine you. I’m warning you.”
His words hit and bounced off. I was too busy telling Boston’s left wing what I was going to do to his fucking face.
“Locker room! Now!” another linesman shouted toward each team.
“I’m going to break your goddamn nose and cover the ice with your blood!” one of my guys yelled at a defenseman.
“Come do it, asshole,” the defenseman replied.
The ref moved in front of me and grabbed my face mask. “Do you know how many thousands of dollars that punch is going to cost you?”
“Do you know how many thousands we make each game?” one of my guys shot back.
None of us gave a fuck if we got fined. I would guarantee Boston felt the same way.
The satisfaction of hitting one of those cocky, loudmouthed,wished they were as good as usmotherfuckers would be worth every dollar we had to shell out.
And we were going to be paying because the guys were closing in, the heat coming off their bodies telling me we were inches away from brawling.
