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Prologue
Game 6 in Boston – AHL Calder Cup Final
On the Ice
Casey
I’m gonna break his nose. Again. How many times will that be now? How many times can a nose break before you can’t call it a nose anymore?
My bestie, Jack Leslie, was right. It doesn’t matter how many times I break Sutter’s fucking nose, he doesn’t get less hot. It pisses me off. What pisses me off more is that I never used to think about Sutter as hot, until Coach suggested that we release our tension by fucking, and Jack seconded that motion.
Okay, so that’s not entirely true. Know what? Let’s not split hairs here. Mitch Sutter is a helluva beefcake, but he should be skewered, roasted, and eaten like any other slab of meat, never to be seen again.
We’ve been beating the shit out of each other since he showed his smoldering mug on the ice way back when we were in the minor midget hockey division. Okay, well, that’s not quiteaccurate, but I don’t like to admit to the truth. Believe it or not, we were friends for about five minutes, until I learned he was a dirty player. We didn’t hang out, but he was on my team, and we played well together. We could say hello like two civilized human beings.
Until he moved to a rival team. Then I saw who he really was.
I didn’t expect his cheap shots, or the penalties I got because he’s a rat bastard who antagonized me into them just in time for the ref to catch me retaliating. All I wanted after that was revenge. Simple, testosterone-fueled revenge. As we got older, we upped the ante. Sinking my fist into someone’s face never felt so good.
Bent over center line, Sutter rests his stick against his thickly padded thighs. His dark hockey coif curls out the bottom of his helmet.
“Ready to get creamed, Alderchuck?”
Goddammit. Thanks to Coach and his “you and Sutter should fuck out your unresolved sexual tension conspiracy theory”, everything Sutter says is dirty now. “I’m gonna make sure you spend the game where you belong—locked up behind the glass.”
He’s so fucking cocky, smirking, thinking he’s the best thing to grace the ice. I won’t let him get in my head. The puck drops, it hits my cradle before Sutter has his stick down, and I’m quick to pass it back to my brother, who I know will be there.
I always know where Stacey is. Our special twin spidey-sense. He takes off with the puck before Sutter knows what’s happening, and I push Sutter back. That’s all it was supposed to be, but Sutter grips my jersey, and my blades trip over themselves. I just recover my balance in time to catch his smug-ass face, laughing at me.
Could I let it go here and play the game? I could, but no universe exists in which I will.
One move, that’s all it takes to shed my gloves and drop my stick. Sutter does the same. We’re in a new face-off, circling counterclockwise, fists up.
“You’re a fucking joke, Sutter. C’mon then.” I egg him on, trying to get him to throw the first punch.
He swings, his fist cracks my face, and I answer back with some hits of my own. Sutter’s a southpaw, so my right side gets it. I brutalize his left for as long as I can until I lose my footing.Crack-wham!My back meets the ice. But do I stop trying to pummel Sutter? No. I reach for him with as much rage as if I’m trying to avenge my family, and he answers in kind. It takes two refs and a linesman, two refs to pull him off me, and a linesman to steer me toward the penalty box like I’m an errant preschooler.
“Eat my ass, Sutter!” Fuck. That sounds extra dirty, but I don’t mean it like that. I mean … I don’t know. I just want to see the pure murder on his face. The reaction. I want to know that I’m under his skin.
Two minutes later, I’m back on the ice. I vow to keep my eyes on the puck this time. Jack barrels through center with that little black hunk of vulcanized rubber. One, two. One, two, three … pass,Thuck!Right to my stick with perfect timing so that I’m not offside. I drop it back for Stacey.Wham!Sutter checks me into the fucking boards. I push him, and let the record state that I try to skate away. Sutter’s stick doesn’t let me, taking my feet out from under me.
In case the refs were wondering, that’s a tripping penalty, but do they see it? Nope. There’s no whistle and Sutter gets away with cheap-ass hockey murder. I’m not known for keeping a lid on my temper. Using my stick, I turn and slam it across his cement-walled chest. It bends my stick. This close, the damage I did to his face earlier is more than apparent.
“Watch where you’re goin’, Alderchuck. You’re fucking embarrassing, fallin’ down easy.” He pokes me with his stick.
That’s it. That’s fucking it. “Sutter, you goddamn clown!”
“C’mon then, tough guy. Drop your gloves.”
They’re dropped alright. I slam Sutter against the boards and send him sailing over the Boston bench. He scrambles to get up, his bench does what they can to pull back a feral Sutter who’s raring to pulverize me. I spread my arms as I’m carted off to the box again. Worth it, but also, it figures. Sutter starts shit and I’m the one doing the time.
We’re not the only ones. Tensions are high this game. Meaningless fights break out all over the ice.
It’s not a hockey game, it’s a blood sport.
Ishouldn’t go for a beer, especially after a game six, but I’m hurting. Every bone, every tendon, every damn muscle. The nailbeds of my fingers hurt. I didn’t know that was a thing until today. We battle for Coach on that ice, he can overlook one beer.
If he finds out.
