Page 130 of Behind the Net

He looks like his dad, who’s a rich, miserable asshole, and as I watch Miller get in Volkov’s face, I wonder how much of that got passed on.

Play resumes. Our team tries to get the puck in the Calgary net, but Miller wedges his stick between Owens’ legs. The fans are on their feet, booing and calling for a penalty.

The whistle blows as Calgary’s goalie catches the puck, and I turn to get a drink of water, locking eyes with Pippa behind the glass. She smiles and gives me a small wave, and I nod at her, spraying water through my mask, thinking about how good she looks in that jersey. My jersey. My chest pulls tight at the sight of her, here, supporting me, wearing my name proudly.

This girl is everything to me.

The players line up to resume the game, and I get into the ready position. The whistle blows, and Miller trips one of our guys.

It’s like he’s not even trying. Like he doesn’t care about hockey. When he cares, he’s unstoppable, and that’s probably why he’s still on the fucking team. The spark he used to have for the game is gone, though.

Finally, he’s thrown into the penalty box, and the arena hollers and jeers. People slam their fists on the glass, and he shakes his glove off before flipping them the bird.

I inhale sharply. I see it now. He used to pull this shit when we were teenagers. His dad would say something to upset him, and he’d hit the ice in a mood. He antagonizes players, he fires up the fans, he makes himself the villain so everyone will see him like he sees himself. The guy hates himself, and he’s flailing out here, hoping someone will give him what he deserves.

When his two-minute penalty is over, he skates back into the game, capturing the puck immediately and heading straight to my net. He slaps the puck at me. It pings off the pipe—fucking lucky—and a moment later, he crosschecks me.

My temper ignites, and my blood whooshes in my ears. The whistle is distant because fans roar around us, rattling the glass.

“What the fuck?” Owens bites out, getting in Miller’s face.

Miller’s eyes challenge me. The energy cracks around us, sparking and buzzing with tension.

“What’s the matter, Streicher?”

“You’re in a fucking mood tonight.” I tap Owens, indicating for him to move out of the way, and he skates back, watching us. The rest of the players are circling, waiting, watching.

“Fight, fight, fight,” the fans chant from behind the glass.

The fight I felt in the air—it’s me and Miller.

We’ve only fought once. We were sixteen. He showed up for practice in a foul mood after something his dad said, and he pulled all the same shit he pulled tonight.

“What?” He cocks an ugly, hateful grin at me. “You going to hit me? You, up in your ivory tower? Jamie Streicher, the most responsible guy in the room.”

The noise around us fades away as I glare at him, gritting my teeth at his baiting.

“Come on,” he spits at me, eyes flashing. “I deserve it, don’t I?”

My fists clench.Hewas the one who changed. He was the one who turned into a fucking asshole. He used to care about hockey. Now it’s a big fucking joke to him.

Everything’s a joke to him.

“Go on,” he goads.

Blood rushes in my ears. In the NHL, both players need to agree to a fight, or the player who instigates will get a penalty while the other doesn’t.

All the anger I’ve held inside for years at the guy who used to be my best friend bubbles to the surface, overflowing, and I rip my gloves off.

The crowd roars. Goalies almost never fight.

I pull my helmet off, and the glass behind me shakes from the fans. The refs and linesmen circle us, ready to break up the fight when it goes too far. Until then, they’ll let us deal with it, because this is how the score is settled in hockey.

I don’t dare look at Pippa. I can hold my own in a fight, but I don’t want her worry and concern in my head as I do this.

“Fucking finally,” Miller snaps, and I remove my goalie pads and toss them aside.

I skate at him, and his fist flies. I block his punch before throwing my own. It connects with his jaw, and a second later, his fist sears the outer corner of my eye.

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