Page 2 of Punchline
Finally,the whistle blew. Fucking refs.
Of course, as Cantwell was getting up, Vincent took an extra slash at him. Cantwell gave him a perfectly justified shove to get him out of his crease.
And that was when the dumbassreallyfucked up—he cross-checked Cantwell in the chest, knocking our goalie off-balance and almost off his skates.
Keps might’ve been ready to whoop Vincent’s ass at that point, but he didn’t get the opportunity. Before Cantwell had even regained his balance, my sticks and gloves were on the ice and I had a fistful of Vincent’s jersey. I swung at his head and dislodged his helmet. When I hit him again, the helmet came off, and anger flashed in his eyes as he grabbed his own hadful of my jersey. He swung me hard enough to one side to send me stumbling, but his grip on my sweater kept me upright.
I balled my fist and swung a haymaker at him, but I misjudged… well, everything, and I hit him uselessly in the chest.
He was far more precise, and the blow to my cheekbone stunned me for a few precious seconds.
When he punched me again, I moved aside enough that he only winged me. Unfortunately, it was also enough to shift my center of gravity. My balance wavered, and when Itried to recover, my skates went out from under me like I was a little kid who’d never skated before. I landed on my ass and back, and then he was on me, and everything went a bit blurry.
The next thing I knew, I was being hauled to my feet by a linesman. Keps and one of my other teammates were screaming at Vincent while a ref tried to keep them apart. The crowd was roaring, or maybe that was the blood pounding in my ears.
Dan, our athletic trainer, appeared beside me with a towel. “Let me have a look at your face.”
“My face? Why do—” But then I realized that wasn’t sweat trickling down my lip or my chin. I wiped at my face with my hand, and sure enough, it was bloody.
“Use thetowel, Berns.” Dan shoved it into my hand. “Hold it to your nose.”
I did, which hurt, but at least it meant less of a mess for the ice crew to clean up. Between Kells’s nose and mine, they had their work cut out for them tonight.
Syracuse’s fans booed me as I skated toward the penalty box. Not unexpected. When they switched to cheering, I wasn’t at all surprised to see Vincent coming this way, gesturing for them to get louder.
Yeah, yeah. I knew the drill. Support the home team even when one of the players acts like a complete douchewaffle.
I took my seat in the box. Keps brought me my stick and gloves, and I kept the towel Dan had given me. My nose and lip weren’t bleeding too badly, and my teeth felt fine, so I’d probably be okay once I was out of the box.
The replay started on the screen, and my insides shriveled. Fuck. Really?Really?I’d sworn in the moment that I’d held my own, but watching the fightnow…
Oh my God,I thought as the crowd howled with laughter,am I that bad at fighting?
Apparently so, because I looked like a complete idiot, punching feebly at this bigger dude who was whipping me around like a ragdoll. And then—fuuuck. In the moment, I hadn’t given any thought to how dignified I’d been as I’d fallen, but I resembled a slapstick cartoon character. My legs went right out from under me, and I dropped unceremoniously on my ass.
The crowd wasdyingwith laughter. I wanted to die from embarrassment.
Mercifully, the replay ended and the crowd hushed, all eyes on the ref who’d skated out in front of the box to announce the penalties.
He clicked on his headset, and his voice echoed through the small arena, “Las Vegas, number sixty-two. Five-minute major penalty for fighting.”
The crowd roared their approval.
Then the ref gestured the other way. “Syracuse, number thirty-eight. Five-minute major for fighting. Two-minute minor for unsportsmanlike conduct. Las Vegas will have a two-minute power play.”
Oh, the fans didnotlike that. They did not like that one bit. The booing made the whole building vibrate, especially as one of Vincent’s teammates joined him in the box to sit the two-minute minor.
I grimaced behind the towel pressed to my face. Hopefully none of the fans knew what kind of car that ref drove. And was Vincent going for a PIM record this game or something? Though knowing him, this probably wasn’t the worst he’d ever been.
Fucking thug.
Our power play didn’t score, but the momentum theygenerated carried them to an even strength goal about thirty seconds later. Syracuse was on its heels, and my teammates kept them that way. By the time Vincent and I were let out of the boxes, the score was 5-0 and Kells was two-thirds of the way to a hat trick. With as pissed off as he was and with a period and a half left to play, I was optimistic he’d get it, too.
As we went into the last five minutes of the second period, we kept Syracuse playing defensively without a single chance to go on the offensive. We exhausted them in their own end and pelted their goalie with shot after shot after shot. I was on the bench after an exhilarating shift, watching restlessly as our guys continued to put pressure on them. I hadn’t scored in four games. Maybe I could break that streak tonight.
Right then, a roar of laughter rose in the stands, and curiosity pulled my focus to the Jumbotron.
Instantly, my stomach dropped and I wanted to die.
