Page 126 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
He tries everything. Slashing Grayson behind the play. Crosschecking Thorne in front of the net. Running his mouth at anyone within earshot about their mothers, their girlfriends, their hockey skills.
Each time, our guys handle it themselves. Grayson just skates away, letting Kane waste energy chasing him. Thorne gives Kane a look that could freeze the Niagara Falls and goes back to screening the goalie. The rookies ignore the chirping as best they can and keep playing their systems.
I’m fuckingproudof them. That shit’s hard.
Kane scores midway through the period on a lucky bounce off Jett’s pad. It’s their first real scoring chance of the game. You can see the frustration boiling over on their bench. They’re being outplayed by a team they thought they could intimidate.
That’s when Kane targets Silas.
It starts small. A little crosscheck here, an elbow there. Nothing the refs will call, but enough to throw my brother off his timing. Silas is a huge guy, taller even than me. Because of his size, anyone can trip him up more easily.
Which makes him a perfect target for someone like Kane.
I watch it happen from the bench, my hands gripping my stick tighter with each cheap shot. The old Hunter would have hopped over the boards already. But I need to make my violence count when it matters most.
Then Kane goes too far.
Silas is chasing a loose puck in the corner when Kane comes in late and low, catching him flush in the ribs with his shoulder. It’s a dirty hit, the kind that can break bones or worse. Silas goes down hard, gasping for breath and cursing. Kane just skates away laughing.
That’s when I see red.
I’m over the boards before my brain catches up to my body, but I’m not alone this time. Thorne’s right behind me, then Jett from the crease, then half the team. We converge on Kane like a pack of wolves who’ve found something threatening their den.
“You got a problem with my brother?” I ask, getting right in Kane’s face.
He grins that same shit-eating grin from last time. “Just playing hockey, princess. Maybe your brother should toughen up.”
But this time, he’s not just facing me. Thorne’s on my right, all six-foot-four of controlled menace. Jett’s on my left, golden hair and dangerous smiles. Even Beck’s here, our captain backing his players. The rookies are behind us, no longer looking nervous or intimidated.
For the first time in my career, I’m not fighting alone.
“Here’s the thing,” I tell Kane, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You want to go after someone, you go after me. But you touch Silas again, and you’ll answer to all of us.”
Kane looks around, suddenly realizing he’s outnumbered. His teammates are there, but they don’t look as eager for this fight as they did when it was just me alone and stupid with rage.
“What, you need your full bench to fight your battles now?” Kane sneers, but there’s uncertainty in his voice.
“Nah,” I say, and I can feel my grin turning savage. “I just wanted them to see this.”
That’s when I drop my gloves.
The fight is brutal but quick. Kane’s tough, I’ll give him that, but he’s not ready for the version of me that’s been channeling anger into my training for weeks. Every punch lands clean and calculated. Every move has a purpose behind it.
I catch him with a right cross that snaps his head back. He tries to tie me up, but I break free and land two more shots to his ribs. When he goes down, I don’t keep hitting. The job’s done.
The linesmen pull us apart, Kane’s nose streaming blood, his jersey torn. He won’t meet my eyes as they escort us both to the penalty boxes.
“Anyone else got something to say?” I call out to their bench.
A quiet, “Fuck you, Huxley!” comes from one of their rookies. Somebody looking to get their ass beat the next time we’re on the ice at the same time. I flip the bird as I hit the sin bin.
For the rest of the game, Sacramento is toast. With Kane nursing his wounded pride in the penalty box, our guys play with complete freedom. Grayson scores twice more, both goals coming off beautiful passing plays that showcase everything we’ve been working on in practice. Thorne adds another on a power play, a laser from the point that beats the goalie clean.
Even the fourth line gets in on it. Connor, who’s been struggling with confidence all season, buries a rebound for his first NHL goal. The celebration is worth the price of admission, guys mobbing him like he just won the Cup.
Jett’s perfect in net, turning aside everything they throw at him. He’s not just making saves, he’s controlling rebounds, starting breakouts. Beck’s everywhere, blocking shots, winning faceoffs, leading by example. When one of their forwards tries to run at him, Thorne steps in immediately. No fighting, just a hard, clean hit that sends a message.
We protect each other now. That’s what teams do.
