Page 34 of Bad Pucking Roommate

Two minutes into the period, we’re called for icing, so all the players move to our end of the rink for the faceoff. Justus takes his spot opposite the Maverick’s player, and when the puck drops his stick finds it first, sending it straight to me. I shoot off toward the other goal, but one of their defenders is glued to my hip, perfectly positioned between me and the goal, so I skate behind the net while the team sets up our offense.

We pass it around, basically playing keep-away, until Justus manages to break free of his defender and skate toward the goal. Niko, who’s been sitting on the puck trying to lure his defender out of position, taps the puck between his opponent’s legs and skates around him to pass it. It reaches Justus right as he’s passing in front of the goal, butinstead of shooting it into traffic he cradles it with his stick, spinning away from the defender that comes to help his goalie, so his back is to the goal.

The other team is expecting him to pass it back to the perimeter, thinking they’ve effectively taken away his shot. Only Justus keeps spinning, a full three hundred sixty degrees, so he’s once again facing the goal. With a subtle flick of the wrist, he sends the puck right past the stunned goalie, straight into the back of the net.Fuck yeah!

The crowd goes wild as the lights behind the goal flare to life, and we all slam into Justus to give him a congratulatory slap on the back. When I get to him I rest my helmet against his, forehead-to-forehead, and meet his elated gaze. “Epic shot, man. Epic.”

He smiles brighter than I’ve seen him do before, which is saying something, and together we skate to the bench so the second line can take the ice.

Keeping a watchful eye on the game, everyone gushes about the beauty of Justus’s goal while we rehydrate. The second and third lines finish their rotations without giving up or scoring, so we’re still up five to one when the first line takes the ice again.

The fans are loving it. The other team, not so much. They’re heated about their inability to score, as if that’s our fault, and they take their frustration out on us, checking Justus violently into the boards as he skates the puck to their end of the rink.

It doesn’t look like he hits at an awkward angle, but the contact is so aggressive and unexpected he crumples to the ice like a rag doll, and my lungs empty their air like I’ve been punched in the gut.

No!

I’ve seen teammates go down, but not just drop like they’re not present in their body. It’s a sickening sight, made even worse by the fact he doesn’t move after he hits the ice. Just lies there, immobile. Lifeless.

Oh, God. Not Justus.

My heartbeat echoes in my ears as I skid to a stop, a jolt of fear ricocheting through me. Usually, when a guy goes down there’s some indication of what’s happening. Players grab at an arm or leg, or even drip blood. Something that suggests while they may be hurt, they aren’t incapable of recovery. I’ve never had to wonder before if someone suffered permanent damage from the game, or whether they’d make a full recovery, the way I’m wondering about Justus’s motionless form right now.

He’s the most honorable guy on the ice. The only one I trust implicitly, even over Noah. His career is just getting started. I’m just getting… I can’t lose him now.

My gaze finds the man standing over Justus, the Maverick’s rookie defender Carson, and the rink seems to fade away as he comes into stark focus.

Oblivious to the game around me, I shoot off toward the opposite side of the rink, shucking off my gloves so I can tackle the arrogant prick. We go down in a tangle, and I’m vaguely aware of pressure on my knuckles when my fist connects with his jaw, but since there’s no sting of pain I do it again. And again. And I’m pulling back for another swing when someone hooks an arm around mine so I can’t follow through.

Whistles trill around me while the crowd simultaneously boos the hit and cheers me. A ref screams in my face, but I can’t make out the words over the rage burning in my limbs. I struggle against the hands holding me back as I’m pulled away from the target of my fury, and it’s not until I’m being shoved against the boards in front of our bench that I allow myself to look toward Justus.

He’s still on the ground, the team physicians surrounding him as they give him a concussion test. Even from twenty feet away I can tellhe’s dazed, and I lurch forward in an effort to get to him. But it’s a futile attempt since my teammates are still holding me back.

“Easy, Luca,” Niko rumbles in my ear. “Let the doctors do their thing.”

The fact he’s talking me down from going to Justus instead of going after Carson should stop me in my tracks, but it doesn’t.

“I have to see if he’s okay.” I try to wrestle my arm free.

“You have to calm down before you get yourself ejected,” Noah growls in my other ear. “You’re already looking at a five-minute penalty, don’t make it worse.”

“How does checking on my teammate make things worse?”

“Because you can’t help him, and you’ll only get in the doctors’ way. Let them take care of it,” Noah states.

As the initial spike of adrenaline starts to fade and I get my breathing under control, I realize Noah’s right, and that my reaction to the hit will come into question in a way I’m not prepared to acknowledge or defend. That doesn’t stop me from trying to do damage control.

“Fucking Carson.” Noah and Niko let me jerk my arm free. “He isn’t talented enough to stop Justus, so he took him out.”

“It was a questionable hit,” Noah agrees diplomatically.

“Not questionable. Dirty,” I correct. “And you know it. Don’t tell me I was out of line defending Justus.”

“That depends on why you were defending him.” Noah gnaws on his bottom lip like he’s got something else he wants to say, but Niko elbows him gently and jerks his head toward Justus, who’s getting to his feet with the help of the team physicians.

Bracketed between them he skates toward the bench as the crowd erupts in applause. I hold my breath as he gets closer, waiting for him to give me a signal he’s okay. But his hazy eyes are cast downward as he’s led off the ice and into the locker room.

Carson and I both get five-minute penalties, but he takes the ice when he’s released whereas I spend the rest of the game on the bench. Our lead gives us the flexibility to finish the game without either me or Justus in the lineup, but I know the real reason I’m sitting out is because Coach doesn’t trust me not to go after Carson. I’ll never admit it, but I don’t trust myself either.

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