Page 22 of Ice Queen

The whole team is clapping, bobbing their heads along to his ridiculousness when he starts jumping up and down. Coach Stevens stands in the corner with his arms crossed, but a smile on his face, while he watches us.

“All we do is score, score, score, no matter what! Pucks in the net, yeah, we never let up! And every time we hit the ice, everybody's sticks go UP!”

Silence takes over the room before the entire team is screaming, “AND THEY STAY THERE!”

Coach Stevens is laughing now, the joy flowing through me over this is astronomical. I don’t remember the last time we’ve been able to joke around like this in the locker room. The thought makes me pause, my eyes scan the room, determined to find out why, and when I realize Sterling isn’t in here, it clicks.

The last time Monroe tried to sing in the locker room, he got called childish and told to sit down so Sterling could tell us all we did wrong.

My jaw clenches, turning in a slow circle, as I look in every corner of the room. I’m knocked in the shoulder by our Captain. “Come on, buddy. Lighten up.”

Turning back to the room, I join my teammates for one last chant of the chorus before we sit and listen to Coach Stevens. His usual “we’re winning and keep doing what you’re doing” speech runs on until the buzzer rings in the room, letting us know it’s time to get back on the ice.

The second I break through the doors, I spot Sterling. He’s walking from the other end of the hallway, scratching at his patchy beard. He doesn’t notice I’ve stopped, and he doesn’t get a chance to, because Monroe shoves me from behind. “Leave it, man.”

I know the first play of the period that the Titans are pissed. They haven’t played this dirty the whole game, and for some reason, the refs aren’t calling a damn thing. The blade of one of their sticks literally pulls at Reed’s skate. I stand, hands flying out wide. “Ref! Are you stupid?! That was tripping, clear as day.”

“Sit down, Samuels,” Coach Sterling hisses.

“Screw off, dude,” I mutter under my breath, sliding down the bench as I wait my turn to get on the ice.

If they want to play dirty, I’ll happily oblige. The second Reed hops the boards, my skates are on the ice. “On your right,” Wilder yells, turning to skate backward to block the Titan’s player.

The puck rolls against the boards, getting stuck in the corner. It barely makes it off Wilder’s stick, coming in my direction before he’s slammed into by a defenseman from behind. I watch in horror as he crumbles to the ice, right in front of his wife. Her screams can be heard over the crowd, but only for a second before my vision narrows on the back of this guy’s head.

My gloves hit the ice before I even move. I grab a handful of his jersey, yanking him back with enough force that he loses his balance for a second. My fist connects with his cheek before he knew I was there. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I yell, ducking out of the way of his fist.

“Ahh, Samuels. What a pleasure to be on the receiving end of your anger.” He smiles, but not for long, as I throw another punch. He dodges it, but the next one lands in the middle of his nose. The satisfying crack makes me smile like a deranged madman.

“Didn’t know it was such a hot commodity,” I say, tugging at his jersey again. We move in a circle, my tongue running over my teeth as the first rivulet of blood stains his face.

“Yeah, we’re taking any chance we get to poke the bear, considering none of the teams in the league want you on their roster,” he taunts, circling like a shark in the water, hands framing his face as he waits for me to make a move. “Too hotheaded, too big of a drunk. Probably pays child support for twenty kids at this point. What a nightmare.”

His words catch me off guard. Is that what they think? Is that how the world sees me? What a load of shit. “Hit a sore spot, eh?”

“Nope,” I say, throwing one final punch, making sure it lands right on his cheek, before the ref intervenes. “That was a dirty hit, and you know it,” I spit, raising my hands and gliding backward toward the penalty box.

Two minutes go by at an agonizingly slow pace. My mouthguard bobs as my jaw grinds back and forth. My hands have blood on them, but not nearly enough, in my opinion. The door to the box opens, and I move quickly out of the way.

The second I hop the boards and make contact with the bench, Sterling’s in my ear. “If you can’t handle yourself, you can decorate the bench for the rest of the season.”

My eyes roll, and thankfully, he can’t see me from where he hovers like a gnat over my shoulder. But I don’t respond. I have nothing to say to him. As I slide further down the bench, Coach Stevens puts his hand on my shoulder, giving me a quick squeeze. He and I have a mutual understanding: if someone goes after my teammates, I go after them.

As the game continues, I notice that they only go after my teammates when I’m on the ice. Almost as if I’m being set up. Like a freaking punch to the gut, I slowly turn and see Sterling with a smirk on his face. He doesn’t see me looking, but Reed does. He smacks his stick against the boards twice in rapid succession, his signal for “I agree.”

He and I have built an entire language on grunts and stick taps over the years. Where Monroe and Wilder are my best friends, Reed is my voice of reason. The one that keeps me out of trouble, more often than not.

When my eyes meet his, he gives his head a small shake, one that tells me not to feed into the trap. So I don’t. My teammates are strong as hell. They can take care of themselves, plus we have an actual defenseman whose job is to protect the net, and they have zero qualms about defending our teammates as well. My stepping in is one hundred percent my problem. I have to physically work to not lower my shoulder into the backs of the Titans’ every time they go after one of mine.

“Shit, that was cold,” Reinstead, the guy I got in a fight with earlier, says with a whistle as he skates by. “Letting your buddy take a hit like that. Some friend you are.”

Cold. Letting. You failed, Markus. Failed to protect. You let it happen. Again.

The final buzzer goes off, and I head straight for the locker room, not even stopping to celebrate with my team. Had I stayed, there would have been more blood on the ice. A lot more of it.

* Hey, what’s the matter?

* You know you love me.