Page 2 of Dirty Pucking Player

He shakes his head. “It’s not worth it, and you don’t have any more free passes, dude.”

The words instantly chill the anger burning through my blood.

Shit. He’s right.

I look over to the bench and into the stone-cold eyes of Coach Spencer.

Fuck.

I’ve been skating on thin ice with him and the GM all season. Every penalty is another mark against me, and every suspension might as well be another step out the fucking door.

They warned me they weren’t going to put up with much more after what happened last season. That they couldn’t risk having me on the team going into the second half of this season when we’re so close to making it to the playoffs. They said my attitude and the constant penalties were a hindrance to the team, and no matter how well I played, no matter how many goals I scored and assists I racked up, I couldn’t make up for it.

Five damn years busting my ass for this team, helping them make it to the top of the Central Division every single damn season, All-Star Team five times, voted fan favorite three times, and this is how they repay me. By making threats to trade me if I don’t fall in line like a good little boy.

It was so condescending and insulting. I should have told them to go fuck themselves and asked to be traded, but Chicago has become my home. These guys are my friends, my family. I don’t want to get shipped off to some shit team somewhere, so I promised I’d be “good.”

I swore up and down I’d reel myself in.

It was a fucking lie.

And they knew it.

Bash Fury doesn’t have an off switch. Even now, my hands fist and open at my sides, ready for more. But it’s over. In more ways than one. No way I’ll be staying on the Warhawks with what just happened. This is exactly the excuse they need to get rid of me.

The ref skates over to make the announcement. “Number 71. Ten-minute penalty for fighting and a game misconduct.”

Motherfucker.

I glare at Miller as I skate off the ice, but I don’t bother looking at anyone in the stands or at our bench again.

It’s pointless.

They hired me to play the game, and I’m fucking playing. Just because I don’t do it like the rest of these pussies doesn’t mean I should be repeatedly punished for it.

Fucking bullshit.

I already know where this is heading. And it isn’t anywhere good.

What team is gonna pick up my contract on trade after this? Probably one with no hope of ever making it anywhere in the playoffs.

My chance at the Stanley Cup just went down the drain along with my career—and this time, the guy deserved it. But I’ll still pay the price.

I storm down the tunnel to the locker room. Every muscle in my body vibrates with the adrenaline from the fight and the rage of knowing the consequences of what I just did.

“This is such fucking bullshit.”

I tear off my helmet and chuck it across the room. It slams against the wall of lockers and ricochets back.

This is fucking hockey, not touch football. Violence is part of the game and asshats like Miller need to know they can’t play like that, touch our fucking tendy, and expect no response.

What the fuck is going on with these snowflakes?

The wrath building inside me has reached a boiling point. What just went down on the ice was only the tip of the iceberg. I march over to my next target—the water cooler. I grab it and toss it across the room. It smashes into one of the lockers and explodes, water drenching my teammates’ personal items and soaking the floor.

“What the hell is going…” Louie, our assistant equipment manager, freezes in the doorway and takes in my handiwork. “Shit.”

“Get the fuck out of here.” My screamed order echoes through the space, reverberating in my ears. “Now!”

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