Page 88 of Power Play

What the fuck are they doing?

Of course, the ref doesn’t call the penalty. What good are they? Sure, there are twelve players and four officials on the ice, so they can’t see everything, but such a blatant display of targeting should be obvious. On the bench, Coach is hollering, and Logan’s using both hands to hold back Jenkins, who’s spitting mad.

Our fans are livid, too, booing and throwing things onto the ice. Play is stopped while the ice crew comes to clean up, and I skate over to Mitchell, who’s being evaluated by Amelia and Derek.

“Dude, you’re bleeding,” I blurt.

He touches his mouth, where a streak of blood is forming. “Bit my fucking lip when I fell. Assholes.”

“You good?”

His attention turns to Derek, who frowns before reluctantly shaking his head. “I’ll clear you, but we have to stitch your lip. You can’t go out there spilling blood everywhere.”

Mitchell’s eyes darken, frustration on his face. “No, that’s their job.”

He has to sit out a shift while he gets cleaned up, so Coach sends Reynolds out with Jenkins and me, and although we land two shots on goal, nothing goes in. The physicality of their game means we have to up our play, but no matter what we do, we’re held back by their excellent goaltender. It feels impossible. Insurmountable.

But then—Larsson sneaks the puck over the goaltender’s right shoulder, and Easton levels a New Orleans defender with a massive hit, and it finally, finally feels like things are going the right way for the first time all game.

Line change. Jenkins, Mitchell, and I hit the ice again, and our temporary reprieve is fully over, because they’re targeting him again. But it’s not only Mitchell; now, they have it out for all of us, desperation clear on their faces.

We’ve never had beef with New Orleans, not like this. The Grizzlies take pride in playing a steady, clean game. We don’t take stupid penalties. We don’t want to hurt anyone. Sure, sometimes hits don’t land right, or there’s incidental contact that goes the wrong way. By nature, hockey is a dangerous sport.

We play the right way. We care.

These assholes? All they can focus on is the bloodlust. They can’t see past it.

And when Mitchell skates to the left point, and Sinclair passes the puck, their goon collides with Mitchell in a massive hit that lifts our player clear off his skates. His entire body is airborne for what feels like an hour but can’t possibly be more than seconds.

His helmet collides with the ice with a sickening thud that instantly makes me nauseous.

And he doesn’t get up.

A whistle echoes through the silent arena. Even the rowdiest, noisiest fans have fallen quiet.

Panic laces through me. Get up, get up, get up. I skate closer, but the lineman holds me back.

“No, no,” he mutters, his eyes focused on Mitchell.

There’s a commotion to my left as Derek hurries back onto the ice, wearing grippy cleats on his shoes. He rushes to Mitchell’s side, kneeling beside him and talking to him. His voice is inaudible over the rushing of blood in my ears.

Adrenaline courses through me, my vision burning red. I’m overcome with the need for retribution. Revenge. I want to rip them limb from limb until they feel every bump and bruise, every hit, every push and shove Mitchell’s gone through, and do it tenfold.

The lineman’s grip on my jersey tightens. “You can’t go over there, kid,” he says.

After what feels like an eternity, Amelia comes out with the stretcher, and they load Mitchell onto it. A sick feeling punches me in the stomach at his prone form.

This isn’t good.

The refs call our attention, and although Easton wins the face-off, we’re too distracted. Distraught. New Orleans scores on a breakaway, and then the period ends.

It’s a subdued team that heads into the dressing room. Coach tries to give us a pep talk, but it doesn’t work. We just have to get through the next twenty minutes.

Somehow, and I have no fucking clue how, we do. The score is a lopsided 7–1, those assholes reveling in our misery. But it’s more than the score. It’s Mitchell. In a few short weeks, he’s become part of the team. He’s one of us, our brother. And we look out for our own.

Coach lets us know his condition is still being evaluated, and we won’t have answers at least until tomorrow. My stomach sinks. If it were a simple concussion—not that any concussion is ever simple—they would know right away. It wouldn’t require overnight admission to the hospital. Something is wrong.

“Hey,” Jenkins says as we get dressed, a downcast expression on his face. “A few of us are heading to the bar. Want to come?”