Page 28 of Full Tilt
With one last glance at his center, I’m all in on Callaghan as he fakes to pass off to his teammate, but it doesn’t have the desired effect when I don’t commit.
But when he pulls the puck back between his legs in a move I haven’t seen him pull off in game tape, I’m left stranded, wondering if he’s going to dive down my left or right side.
The fucker does neither, pulling the puck back for a second time and laying it off to his center in a last-minute pass right before he collides with me.
They score, and Archer drops to his knees in front of the goal, shaking his head at the crease. Our goalie coach, Jensen Jones, stands on the other side of the plexiglass, directly behindthe goal, with his jaw agape, trying to process what he just witnessed.
It was likely one of the best moves this season—if not in modern-day hockey—but that’s not enough to stop my frustration from bubbling over into rage. It feels like the whole arena is mocking me when the lamp continues flashing for what feels like way longer than normal. Callaghan and his teammates all bump fists along the benches as they draw out their celebrations just to rub salt into the wound.
With my hands propped firmly on my hips, I skate back to center ice just as one of their rookie wingers passes by me.
“Nice assist, Schneider. Did your dad teach you how to be a fool? Because you sure have the knack.”
I see red. Like a curtain dropping on a performance—or possibly even my career—I skate after the rookie who just signed his own death warrant, pulling off my gloves and thrusting them onto the ice.
I’ve never spoken with Curtis Freeman before since this is his first pro season.
Never too young for a rude awakening.
I crunch my elbow into his ribs, and I spin around to face him. I already know I’m destined for the penalty box. Might as well go the whole way.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to speak up. My bullshit filter is on its highest setting today.” I cup my hand around my ear, cheers from the crowd reverberating around the arena.
They want a fight, and they’re going to get one.
Ordinarily, I’d probably let the first or second gibe from a player slide and bank it as ammunition for later in the game or season. Unfortunately for Freeman, he caught me on a bad day with the worst possible reference he could make.
His eyes dart around the rink before he drops his gloves in front of me.
“Zach Evans already retired.” I grin at him. “And the rest of your teammates aren’t going to save you.”
I’m vibrating, firing off like a coiled spring when I land a punch into his ribs.
He wraps his right arm around my neck, gripping on to me on a choked cough.
“Repeat what you just said to me,” I spit. “I want to hear your mouth talk smart while it swallows my fist.”
I pull out from his body and land an uppercut on the underside of his jaw, one reminiscent of the hit I put on Jenna’s brother.
It feels good. Cathartic even. Purging pure rage.
The rookie escapes my grasp and takes a wild swing for me, which practically sends him crashing to the ice. I stand with my hands on my hips as I circle him, laughing and enjoying the show.
Blood drips from his chin, and I know we only have seconds before the ref breaks us up.
Plenty of time to land another hit.
I give him a matching bruise on the other side of his rib cage right before the ref pulls me from him, ushering me to the penalty box beside the Blades bench and Freeman off the ice to get medical treatment, along with the stitches he’s definitely going to need.
“You’re brutal, Schneider,” the ref grits out beneath his breath. “Major penalty for the glove drop, plus another two minutes for being the instigator.”
He slams the box door as I step in, and I beat my stick against the plexiglass like a rabid bull. “He fucking started it!” I point at the bent-over rookie as he leaves the ice. “He showed unsportsmanlike conduct!”
I’m still going wild when our veteran defenseman, Sawyer Bryce, skates past the penalty box, pulling up in front of me.
I’ve lost complete control of my emotions, probably humiliating myself more than Jenna ever could.
He shakes his head at me, disappointment in his eyes. Sawyer has always been the guy everyone turns to on the team, the levelheaded single dad who’s seen it all, on and off the ice.
