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“Hayes, shut the fuck up!” he barked, skating over to the ref to sort out the penalties. Moments later, he saw the other guy enter the box for a two-minute unsportsmanlike as well, so he backed off.
When he’d gotten out of the box with 12:25 left in the third, the stars had aligned and he’d ended up on a breakaway, taking it right into the offensive zone, where he was quickly met by their defense and ended up in a puck battle behind the net. His head was down, about two feet in front of the boards, and someone had screamed, “Hayes, look up, look up!”
It was too late.
There was a loud crack, followed by a thud, and Hayes lay motionless on the ice. Everyone immediately stopped playing, and the crowd went almost silent. Ryan, who’d watched in horror from the bench, was the first to his side, with Nick right behind him.
“Hayes! Hayes!” Ryan yelled, kneeling next to him. “He’s not moving. He’s not fucking moving!”
Rizz and Kasic skated over and pulled Ryan away. “Hey, let Nick get to him, OK? Let Nick do his job. He’s gonna be alright. He just got his bell rung, brother.”
Before long, the medics made their way onto the ice with a stretcher, had loaded Hayes onto it, and were wheeling him down the tunnel and toward the ambulance. They’d managed to get Ryan back to the bench, as Hastings came up behind him and grabbed onto both his shoulders. “He’ll be OK, kid. Just keep your head on straight. He’ll be OK.”
The guy who’d charged Hayes, number 53, had somehow gotten away with only a double-minor for cross-checking, and the Islanders’ bench lost its collective mind. Rizz had argued so hard with the ref, they were sure he was going to get a game misconduct, and Hastings took a bench penalty for calling the ref a “blind piece of flaming, decrepit monkey shit,” or something along those lines.
Coach Reilly had benched Ryan for the remainder of the game for two reasons: first, because he knew his head wasn’t on right, and second, because he didn’t want him to catch a murder charge. When Hastings had called a timeout at the three-minute mark, Rizz and Ryan devised a little non-verbal agreement.
When it came time for the face-off, number 53 was out for a shift. Rizz nodded at Ryan, and as soon as the puck dropped, Rizz made a beeline for the bench, and Ryan launched himself over the boards.
“Baylor!” Reilly hollered. “Rislan, what the fuck?”
“Sorry. Skate issues, Coach.” He shrugged.
Gripping his stick like a baseball bat, he raced up behind number 53 and cracked him right across the lower back, dropping him immediately. Throwing his stick and gloves to the ice, Ryan jumped on top of him and, with a flashback to Gilgo Beach, began pounding on his face. He’d gotten about three good punches in before two Thunderbirds yanked him off their teammate and proceeded to beat the ever-loving shit out of him, resulting in a bench-clearing brawl complete with Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em goalies.
Ryan had been ejected, and after dragging himself to the locker room covered in blood, he tore off his gear, leaving it all on the floor of the locker room. He threw on his suit pants and dress shirt, snagged the Raptor keys from Hayes’s stall, and hauled ass to the hospital, driving with the one of his eyes that wasn’t swollen shut.
Ryan Baylor knew he was in deep shit, but at that moment, the only thing that mattered to him was Tyler fucking Hayes.
I Don't Hate You, Too (42)
Amara could hear Ryan carrying on from the hallway, as she hurried back towards the ER waiting room. Rounding the corner, she saw Jake with his arms around him, trying to calm him down near the main entrance.
“Sir, you’re gonna have to take it easy,” one of the ER nurses told him.
“Why won’t you let me see him?” he yelled, as Amara approached him. Jake let him go and Ryan threw himself into her arms. “They won’t let me see him, Amara!”
“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry,” she told him softly, running her hands up and down his back and making a face at the foul stench that was coming off him. He hadn’t had a chance to shower after the game, and it’d never been more obvious. Turns out, all the rumors about how repulsive hockey equipment smelled?
All true.
He pulled away from her and she examined him: his dress shirt had several blood stains on it, which she assumed were from his face, as his one eye was completely swollen shut and there was a bloody gash along his forehead that could probably use a stitch or two.
“Ma’am, does he need to be admitted?” the nurse asked her, looking him up and down. “He’s not lookin’ too good.”
“No, he’s fine. He’s just here to visit his boyfriend, and apparently, he’s being told he’s not allowed to.”
“One visitor per patient, ma’am. Emergency contacts only if they’re available, unless the patient is a minor. That’s our policy.”
“OK, well since I’m not back there now, can he take my spot?”
“Please?” he begged. “I gotta...I gotta see him.”
The nurse rolled her eyes. “Lemme see what I can do. Get him settled down, please. He can't be in here freakin’ out like this.”
“OK. Thank you very much.” Amara turned towards a row of unoccupied chairs near the bathroom, away from the other people waiting, who’d been attentively watching all this go down.
They sat, Amara on one side of Ryan and Jake on the other.
