Page 40 of Shattered On Ice

My blood runs ice-cold. He remembers. He’s the same monster who cornered me on the concrete ten years ago. And tonight, of all nights, the man I’m falling for is sitting just on the other side of the glass. If Benoit catches me looking into the stands at Knight…Cold, sharp panic pierces my chest. He won't just come for me this time. He’ll wreck Knight, too.

“That motherfucker is just as bad as he was in junior hockey,” I grit out. “He’s always been the worst kind of asshole.” I grip my stick to fight the sudden, violent tremor in my hands.

“Yeah, that’s easy enough to figure out, but what does it mean?” he asks, grabbing my shoulder.

I flinch at the sudden touch, my breathing shallow and erratic. It takes everything in me to force my All-Star mask into place just to form the words. “It’s a nasty French-Canadian slur that’s irredeemable. He called you fags, with homophobic contempt.” My voice is a rough, trembling growl. “I want to rip his head off.”

He’s bringing it here. The violence. The dark corners. The blood on the floor. He doesn't get to spread his hate to anyone else. I won't let him. It’s time he learned his lesson. He shouldn't fuck with who people love.

“Boys, circle up,” Monty calls, getting the attention of the players near us. When they skate closer, he looks around. “Benoit called me a fag for kissing Tucker at the puck drop. I’d like to give him a warm Southern welcome and show him that kind of language isn’t tolerated down here in Atlanta. Keep it clean, but make it clear. We don't stand for homophobia in our house.”

Everyone looks toward the visitors' bench while my eyes are locked on Monty. Grumbling carries over the roaring of the crowd, and I know they all got the message. I respect our captain even more for not tolerating this kind of disrespect. He’s braver than I’ve ever been.

The game is straight carnage. The boys are targeting Benoit as expected, slamming him into the boards regularly, getting their hits in whenever Benoit has the puck. The refs are calling some of it, but it’s mostly clean hits, which is frustrating the Montreal team to no end. Their coach is screaming at the refs about the abuse.

To twist the knife, we’re scoring relentlessly. Ryder is stopping every shot on our goal and shit-talking any of the forwards who manage to get to the crease. Our performance is an even better punishment for Benoit’s homophobia.

Coach Kennedy calls for a line change, and I hop off the bench, ready for battle. Chad and I flank Monty as he faces off against Benoit.

Benoit gestures at me. “I thought this cocksucker was the only fif, but it looks like your whole team takes after him.” His heavily accented English is still clear enough to make my face burn. “Being gay must be contagious if he brought the sickness down here. It’s good the league has you chiens quarantined on the same team, eh?”

The words hit me like a slapshot to the throat. My blood runs icy as my lungs freeze. After ten years, he’s still using my secret as a weapon. The suffocating walls of the closet press in on all sides, so much tighter now that Benoit’s ripped the door open and shoved a stick inside to poke at me. I can't take it.

“Mon tabarnak, m'a tu t'l'a décâlisser ta gran' yeule!” I shout, surging toward Benoit, blinding rage taking over my vision. Monty slams his arm into my chest, holding me back.

“We don't need you in the penalty box with less than five minutes left in the game,” he yells in my ear.

The ref blows his whistle and moves back. “Calm the fuck down and reset, or I’ll have you replaced.” He moves back to talk to the lineman.

“That’s right. Hold your dog back, Montenegro. Woof woof woof.” Benoit barks at us and laughs. “We know you like that dog dick.”

I struggle against Monty’s hold to get to Benoit, spouting the most venomous Québécois at him, hoping it’ll finally do the same damage he has. “Crisse de câlice de tabarnak d'esti de sacrament de trou viarge,” I growl, spitting at Benoit’s feet.

“Easy, Dumont. He’s not worth it,” Monty says. “He’s bitter we’re so far ahead, and we’re going to win. So let’s fucking do that, got it?”

Everything in me is on fire. My jaw is radiating blinding pain. “Fucking hate that guy,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

“Clearly,” Monty grunts, pushing me back in line.

The ref calls us back to the face-off circle and sends Benoit out when he jumps too early.

We win the draw and charge toward the goal. We’re passing like a well-oiled machine, finding openings and sliding through the Montreal defense like they don't exist. Monty skates toward the net with the puck, ready to take his shot. Then, Benoit broadsides him with a nasty elbow to the ribs, sending him sprawling onto the ice.

Watching my captain go down is the match to the powder keg. The sickening thud of Monty hitting the ice overlaps entirely with the memory of cracking bones. My rational brain is fried, going offline and leaving me hanging. It’s a decade of hiding in the dark, coalescing into tunnel vision on the man currently skating down the ice with the puck.

I cut across the rink to intercept him. I have major speed, and I don’t slow down. I don't want to play hockey anymore. I want to erase the monster before he can break anyone else.

So I become the wall that will do it.

I slam into Benoit, launching every ounce of my trauma, my fear, and my desperate need to protect Knight into the hit. But everything goes wrong.

The collision is heard above the din of the crowd.

It happens in slow motion, the horror unfolding in sickening detail. Benoit’s body shoots back into the boards, his head and neck connecting with the lip where the plexiglass sits. He goes down in a broken heap, unmoving.

My first thought is, finally. My second, what have I done?

The silence in the arena is even more deafening than their cheering. It’s heavy and unnatural as eighteen thousand people hold their breath, but the only sound I can hear is the frantic, rushing roar of blood in my ears. I’m frozen, staring down at the crumpled shape of the man who ruined my life. The unnatural angle of Benoit’s neck, the horrifying stillness of his limbs on the ice, paralyze me just as much.