Page 232 of Cross Check

My aim is off. My knees keep slipping, but I don’t care. I deal him blow after blow until someone finally yanks me off him, separating us to the roar of the crowd.

“What the fuck, Everett?” Tommy asks, and I spit a mouthful of blood on the ice. “This is supposed to be a no-stakes, no chirping game.”

“All bets are off when a guy starts spewing venom about people I care about.” I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “I wouldn’t have stopped until I killed him, and even then, it wouldn’t have been enough.”

I’m not surprised when the ref assesses me a match penalty. I’m kicked out for the remainder of the game, but I don’t care. I take pride in the fact that Brady Williams is still keeled over, his chest heaving and his jersey stained with blood.

Fucking lowlife.

My teammates shake my hand on the way to the locker room. I give the fans a wave, but I can’t bring myself to look at Amelia.

I’ll break if I do.

I hang my head in the tunnel, knowing whatever punishment comes my way will be worth it.

SEVENTY-TWO

AMELIA

The best kept secret in the NHL is that the coaches have strong personal opinions about most of the players in the league.

We differ on ranking the best athlete at each position and who we’d pick to win the Hart Memorial Trophy, but there’s one thing we’re all in agreement on: Brady Williams is the most hated player by a landslide.

The anonymous player poll last season told us his teammates hate him too, and I need to know what he said to make Grant snap. It’s been two hours since all the games ended, and I’ve spent that time pacing around my hotel room.

Grant was allowed to play in the last game, and his team won the cash prize. Despite the victories, I’m sure there will be repercussions when the regular season resumes later next week. The league thinks fighting is fun and games until a player is defenseless on the ice, and with no helmet and Grant on top of him, Williams was pretty fucking defenseless.

Not that anyone is sad about his injuries.

Two knocks on my hotel door make me jump, and I glance through the peephole. Grant is standing in the hallway, his hands in his pockets and his chin tucked to his chest. I fumble with the deadbolt, throwing the door open and letting Grant step inside.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey.” He runs a hand through his hair and looks at me. “Can I talk to you?”

“What’s going on?” I walk to the couch and sit, putting a pillow in my lap. I’m fidgety and on edge, afraid of what he’s going to say. “Are you okay?”

“Physically? Yeah. My head is throbbing, but I took some Tylenol that will hopefully knock me out in the next hour.” Grant sits on the couch too, keeping his distance. “I had a conversation with the commissioner, which was scary as hell. He’s more terrifying than Coach.”

“Are you suspended?”

“One game. Thought it would be more, to be honest.” He shrugs. “Kind of disappointed it wasn’t, but he told me I’m a good player who has demonstrated exemplary behavior throughout my career. Apparently I don’t deserved to be punished worse than that.”

“How did you end up punching Williams position in the first place?” I ask. “I can count on one hand the number of fights you’ve participated in, and they’ve all been because you were protecting your teammates. This was unprovoked.”

“I wouldn’t call it unprovoked. Williams was goading me. I shouldn’t have taken the bait, but I did. Someone had to.” Grant reaches across the cushions and holds my hand. “I want to tell you what he said that made me react that way, but I have to warn you that it’s about you.”

“W-what?” I sit up. I wet my lips, a lump building in my throat. “How bad is it?”

I’m no stranger to the internet trolls who think they know how to do my job better than me. You learn to tune out the negativity at some point, but disgust swirls in my stomach when I realize a player is guilty of the same behavior.

Does Brady know about us? Is he going to dangle our relationship over our heads so he can get what he wants in this league?

“Bad.” His voice is barely above a whisper. He takes a deep breath, eyes downcast as he opens his mouth again. “He said you’re working in the league because you want attention. Because you’re…” Grant trails off, his free hand folding into a tight fist. “A whore,” he murmurs, and I rear back. “He implied that you’ve been… intimate with players in the league, but I cut him off before he said anything else.”

Bile creeps up from my stomach. I let go of his hand and stand. I walk to the window, my palms on the glass as I look at the street below. As I try to rationalize what Grant just told me, but the words are hard to process. They prick like needles, and I force out a long exhale.

I’m hurt.