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His teammates get to us before any of mine do. I can tell that I’m taking hits myself. Someone’s pulled off my helmet, and fists are crashing into my head, my cheek, my shoulders. People are tugging at me.
I don’t care.
I can’t hear anything over the pounding of my heartbeat and the loud thrumming of my blood flow in my ears.
As the first tsunami of adrenaline ebbs, sounds start to lance through my frenzy. The sharp whistles of the referees. The overwhelming roar of the crowd. The shouts of my team and the Falcons as they jostle to hold me back and pull Ryan away.
I stop swinging my arms when I realize Ryan is out of reach. I regain a measure of control over myself, but the rage doesn’t die down. If anything, it becomes sharper and more focused when I take my seat in the Sin Bin.
I don’t even watch the game. All I can think of are his words. What he said about Olivia. The scummy look in his eyes. The gleeful, malicious tilt on his lips.
I hope I fucking split those lips.
Part of me wants to take a look at him while he’s sitting on his team’s bench across from me. See if I did any real damage. But another part of me knows that if I get him in my sights right now, I might not be able to resist hopping over this barricade to get more shots in.
With a major penalty, I’m out for the rest of the game. We end up losing 2-3.
I should feel bad. I let my team down and got myself locked in the penalty box when they needed me on the ice.
But I can’t feel bad. If I could do it all over again, I’d still throw every single punch. The only thing I’d change is I’d want to make them more accurate. I wish I’d gotten a straight jab right on his nose and made it crooked for the rest of his miserable life.
“What the hell was that all about?” Lane asks me as I’m tugging off my jersey in the locker room.
My nose scrunches as Wentz’s words blare in my memory. “He said something about Olivia. Something he shouldn’t have fucking said.”
“Olivia?” Hudson steps towards me, his tone laced with protectiveness. “How does he know Olivia?”
I glance at him, brow low, not even able to summon the words to my lips.
“Oh, shit,” realization dawns in Hudson’s eyes. “Is he …?”
“Her ex,” I spit out, hating the taste of that word on my lips. “The one who treated her like shit. And he …” I don’t finish my sentence. My jaw clenches in anger. But I force myself to repeat what Wentz said to me out there.
Sebastian clasps my shoulder. “Then I only wish I threw a couple punches myself. Fuck the loss tonight. We’re in the playoffs anyway. That asshole deserved it.”
All my teammates murmur in agreement. Even though I’m still simmering with anger, their support, and the fact that they care about Olivia, is like a soothing lotion over a sunburn.
“Oh, what the fuck,” Rhys growls, looking at his phone.
“What?” Lane asks.
Rhys shakes his head with disgust as we gather around to look at his screen.
“Someone from Brumehill sent me this Tweet,” he says.
It’s a Tweet from Withermore’s center forward. It’s a laughing emoji followed by the message, Our boy Ryan had some words of truth for McCoy that he didn’t wanna hear.
It’s already been liked and re-tweeted by everyone on the Withermore team.
Rage bubbles so high inside me that it almost spills over. I coil the muscle of my right arm, clenching it close to me, trying to overcome my instinct to ball my hand into a fist and slam it into the wall.
“These fuckers are getting it tomorrow,” Rhys says.
Coach storms into the locker room clearly ready to rip me a new asshole for costing us the game. But when the guys speak up for me and explain what happened, including showing him that Tweet, he changes his tune.
“I’d go talk to their coach about the behavior of his players,” Coach Torres says. “But Mike Galvin was a dirty player himself in his day. I’m sure he approves of this shit if he thinks it’ll give them a psychological edge.”
The guys continue to murmur in disgust and anger at the Withermore team.
