Page 1 of Locke

Chapter 1

Locke

IknowbeforeIeventhrow a punch that I’m going to get ejected from the game.

No one is going to want to hear a justification because there isn’t one.There’s no heat of the moment and there’s nothing instinctual.I simply see Morrow coming off the boards with that annoying curl to his lip, disdain for anyone in his way, and heading straight for me.

Christ, he fucking pisses me off.

Nashville’s agitator Leo Morrow is their team’s designated problem-maker, and we’ve played against each other enough to know the other’s secret tool kit.The elbow on the cycle or the slash across the back of the knee when the refs’ eyes are elsewhere.We’ve been chirping at each other the entire game, quiet enough that nobody else heard it.It’s a given that we’re going to drop the gloves.I should probably wait for him to instigate but fuck it.

I feel like fighting now because yeah… I don’t like that curl to his lip.

It’s the third period and the game is tied at two.The Portland Wildfire fans are going crazy, the arena practically shaking from the rafters downward.It’s been loud from the drop of the opening puck—new franchise, new arena, fans who are getting a team of their very own.They’re all here for the violence mixed within the sport, or at least that’s part of my justification for what I’m about to do.These fans aren’t generational loyalists who inherited the team because it’s who their father, and their father before them, rooted for.These people are on the inaugural ride of this crazy train and I’m about to deliver.

Morrow tries to circle past me, but I don’t let him.I ram my shoulder into him, knocking him off balance, and before he can even turn to give me thatWhat the fucklook, I’m throwing my gloves to the ice.

The crowd roars with approval, the desire for blood whipping them into a frenzy.I let that fuel me—a reasonable justification even Coach would have a hard time arguing with—and I have one hand on his jersey, the other balled into a fist that connects with the side of his helmet before he can even get his gloves off.

Morrow’s good, just as big as me, and he strikes back with a vengeance.His knuckles clip my jaw, snapping my head sideways, and I taste the copper tang of blood.

Delicious.

Twenty-two thousand people who came here tonight to watch something happen are getting exactly what they wanted.Some might say I’m a fucking hero.

I manage to tuck in and drive my fist upward, catching the bottom of his chin and popping his head back.Morrow grunts but before he can retaliate, the linesmen get between us.

“That’s enough.Break it up.”

I don’t listen, trying to get my hands free to throw one more punch.The crowd screams out its approval.

“Enough, Donovan,” the official bellows.Morrow is trying to pull loose but I’m not letting him go.

“Jesus, you fucking psychopath,” Morrow snarls as I push hard against all of them.

Unfortunately, my skates slip out from under me and the momentum has me falling.Morrow somehow twists us and he lands on top of me, knocking the air from my lungs.

And then he’s gone, both linesmen pulling him off.He’s skating away from me before I can even get back upright.

“You fucking pussy,” I call out to the retreating Badger.

“Enough, Donovan,” a ref says as he skates up to me, laying a hand on my shoulder.

I shrug it off violently, pulling out my mouth guard out so he can hear me loud and clear.“I’ve played in front of better officials at a peewee tournament, you worthless piece of shit.”

His face mottles red and he points to the door that leads to the locker rooms.“That’s it… you’re out of here.”

“Peewee tournaments,” I snap back, pointing at him.“I’m sure you were fire there.”

The ref ignores me and skates to the glass where officials are eagerly awaiting the call.“At 12:34 of the third period, to Portland, number 18—five-minute major penalty for fighting.Number 18 also receives a two-minute minor penalty for instigating.And a game misconduct for abuse of officials.”

The crowd boos its disapproval, calling the refs blind and biased, although the language is a lot more colorful.I appreciate their devotion to me, but no doubt I deserve the penalties.

I slowly skate across the ice, taking my time.The crowd continues to jeer the refs.I glance up at the center-hung scoreboard—a massive four-sided video board that drops from the ceiling and makes you feel like you’re inside the play.I watch the replay of me attacking Morrow.LED ribbons running the full circumference of the lower bowl pulse in the team colors of burnt orange and forest green while rock music blares, indicating they’re cutting to a commercial.

Once I’m in the tunnel, the sound of the arena muffles and it’s an entirely different world.I lumber to the dressing room, by far the nicest in the league.The team’s owner, Patrick Rowe, was obsessive in the care and attention to detail for the comforts he put into it.The room opens into a wide horseshoe of dark wood cubicles, the configuration designed to make sure you can see every face in the room whether you want to or not.I remember hearing Coach once say that it was to help foster camaraderie.I want no part of that.

Above every stall sits a digital screen with the player’s team photo and number.I give mine a glance, noting the particularly dead look in my eyes despite the photographer trying her damnedest to get me to smile.