Page 176 of Game Misconduct
Flicking it to the ref, I reset.
Second shift, they stack Leonard at the top of the crease, his ass practically on my pads. I shove my blocker into his ribs, clearing space.
He just laughs under his breath. The fucker is trying to bait me.
Not tonight.
Play cycles to the other end. My defense clears. For a while it’s just saves and slides, the normal chaos of hockey.
Riley heckles their goalie from the bench. Cal’s back checking like his life depends on it.
We’re holding.
But Leonard’s circling. Always circling.
I drop into the butterfly for a shot from the point, smother it, and kick the rebound to the corner.
He jabs at my glove after the whistle, a little poke. Just enough to make the crowd boo.
“Easy there,” the ref warns.
Leonard just smirks before leaning closer.
“Didn’t think you’d show your face, Lasker. Figured the whore got to you first.”
I bare my teeth as the words hit like a slash to the gut. Not only because of what he said, but because he said it here.
In my house.
Fucker. I should have beat his ass harder last time.
I grip my stick tighter, pulse pounding against my gloves. Don’t look at him. Don’t flinch. Jace’s voice in my head: Keep your head.
The next few minutes blur. Shots. Blocks. Stick taps.
My shoulder twinges with every push off the post, but I grit through it.
If I leave this game, he wins. And I’m done letting guys like him take things from me.
Midway through the first, it happens.
Puck’s up ice, no whistle. Leonard loops behind my net like he’s on a casual skate. Nobody close. No cameras focused. Then he barrels in—elbow high, full weight—straight into my bad shoulder.
Pain explodes like a flare.
White-hot and ripping through muscle and bone. I slam into the post, mask rattling, vision splintering.
The whistle doesn’t come fast enough.
“Motherfucker!”
It’s Jace—his gloves already off, barreling toward Leonard. Eli’s right behind him. Riley vaults the bench.
Chaos erupts.
I curl over, gripping the post, gasping through clenched teeth. Everything spins. My arm’s numb from the impact, but the burn is deep—old scar tissue tearing, maybe more.
The ref’s yelling. The benches are roaring. Gloves litter the ice like a war zone.
