Page 51 of Game Misconduct

When Gonzo passes the puck, I’m out of position, and Jenkins can’t connect, either. We lose possession on the turnover, and even though I’m putting my all into getting back to our side of the ice, I’m laboring hard like I’ve never done this before. Like I haven’t been playing in the NHL for twelve years and the lifetime of minor leagues, college, and junior hockey before that.

Everything is infinitely harder. I do my best to defend our zone, but Winnipeg gets a few shots on goal, and the fourth try goes in.

Coach calls our line off, and I skate to the bench for the TV time-out with a heavy heart. He reams us out while I grab a bottle to guzzle some electrolytes. The cool berry-flavored liquid slides down my throat, but I’m still burning up.

“What’s going on with you?” Gonzo mutters as he wipes the sweat from his visor.

“Just having a bad shift.”

He arches an eyebrow. “I can tell.”

My two points help lessen the sting of the goal against, but not by much. We’re only up by one, and there’s still a lot of hockey left to play.

“Fuck off.”

“Get your head back in the game.” He knocks his shoulder against mine.

Larsson, MacGregor, and Easton clamber over the boards, and Gonzo and I slide down the bench as the fourth line goes out to replace them.

“You good, man?” the captain asks me as he reaches for a water bottle.

“I’m good.”

He eyes me, lips pursed. “You sure?”

I keep my attention on the ice, where it belongs. Not on a pretty woman who drives me crazy. “Yep.”

And when Coach taps me on the shoulder and I vault over the boards, I’m determined to keep it there.

Winnipeg, however, doesn’t have the same plan. Sinclair passes me the puck and it lands perfectly on my tape, but before I can bring it into their zone, a guy in navy and white checks me nearly off my feet.

Number 12 has been throwing hits like they’re nothing all night, and my shoulder is bruised black and blue. His bones feel like they’re filled with cement. I stumble and almost lose the puck, but pull possession back by the skin of my teeth.

Gonzo waits halfway down the blue line, not wanting to be called offsides. When the guy comes for me again, I pass, spinning out of the way.

And then I lose my edges.

Like a baby. Like I’ve never skated before.

The ice rises up to meet me, or maybe I’m just falling quicker than I thought possible, because I fall backward. I land with a dull thud that hushes the arena. My lungs seize, and my entire body tightens with tension. I hear more than feel the crash of my helmet on the ice, the vibrations running through my entire body and making my limbs flail.

Stunned. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything aside from lie there and wish I were anywhere else. My lungs are tight and achy, and no matter how much I try, I can’t draw in a full breath.

A whistle sounds, and play stops as the linesman comes to check on me. “You good, Mitchell?” he calls.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I do a mental inventory. Nothing feels broken. My vision is clear, my heart rate is elevated but within normal parameters, and I think I’m okay. I just can’t fucking breathe.

Gonzo skates over to me, inadvertently showering me with ice shavings. He leans down, offering a hand. I stare at it, unseeing.

And then, with a choked gasp, air rushes back into my lungs. I draw a shaky inhale, then another. Finally, I accept his hand, and he hauls me to my feet.

“You’re supposed to stay on your skates, asshole,” he teases.

“Fuck off.” I’m still laboring hard, but each new breath is coming easier now.

Skating over to the bench, I’m not surprised when Coach jerks his thumb toward the dressing room.