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I skate over, showering them with ice as I slide to an aggressive stop, pretending to retrieve my puck “Whoops! Sorry about that.”
“Don’t you fucking dare, Sutter.” Casey knows what I’m planning.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Alderchuck.” I know exactly what he’s talking about, but they can both learn a lesson as far as I’m concerned.
“Oh, boy.” He skates away, wanting nothing to do with my revenge, knowing there’s no talking me out of it.
The only problem is, Otterhammer’s a goalie. You’re not supposed to fuck with goalies. It’s an unspoken rule that can get you dog piled by the opposing team. Does that mean it’s not done? No, of course not. There’s the option of harassing the shit out of him when the refs aren’t looking—which I will definitely do—but that’s not going to be good enough for me.
I let Otterhammer know with my eyes that he’s a dead man and head back to my side of the ice.
Vancouver loses the face off, and I skate up the ice alongside Nic, slapping my stick against the ice, letting him know I’m there.
Wham!Into the boards I go behind a hefty check from Alderchuck. “Don’t, Sutter. C’mon, he’s the goalie,” he says, in case I haven’t noticed.
“He wants to fuck you.” And it’s pathetic. Alderchuck turned him down. He should back the fuck off after that alone. But he didn’t and he’s not, so let’s make sure he gets the Goddamn message this time.
I tap Alderchuck with a nice cross-check that the refs miss, and skate away, tearing across the ice. I over skate after the puck, which means my legs are moving too fast to bother stopping. I use Otterhammer’s body, flying into him. I land half on top of him as he spins out of his little blue area known as the crease. But I guess he’s only stupid enough to flirt with my man, not to figure out what I’m doing. His padded fists crack down on me. I fight back, knocking him in his mask-covered face.
“Alderchuck is mine. Keep your hands to yourself, or your stick’s going up your ass,” I warn him.
That’s all I have time to chirp—if a threat about my Alderchuck can be considered a chirp. Two Vancouver players join the fray, attacking me, but I’m living for this. I want the fight. Whistles scream, but we keep going. I lose my gloves. Knuckles crack helmets and faces. My lip splits, and a metallic tang blooms across my taste buds.
It takes all the referees, linesmen, and other players to break up the fights—fights plural because I guess some other ones broke out while I was on the ground. I’m sent straight to the penalty box for two minutes. I use the time to dream up more ways to pulverize Otterhammer. He laughs at me from his net, but the joy of victory sings through me. I got a good hit on him and only got two minutes plus a few bruises for it.
I spend the second period fucking with him. I screen the fuck out of him, elbow him, nudge him, even poke check when the opportunity arises, and plays are too involved for the refs to notice me. But his teammates notice, and they already don’t like me, so it’s reason enough for them to rough me up, earning themselves penalties in the process.
I’m paying so much attention to the other players, I think Alderchuck’s feeling left out. He thrusts his stick out with zero finesse or stealth, catching my blades, sending me spinning like a starfish into the boards. Fuck. That’s gonna hurt when the adrenaline wears off. The whistle blows and Alderchuck’s carted off to the box. I’m left to contend with his twin, who I have to admit’s one helluva hockey player.
“You made your point, Sutter,” he says when we’re in the Boston zone.
“Have I, though?”
During the intermission, Crawford—our goaltender—approaches me. “Let me deal with Otterhammer,” he says.
“I can take care of my own shit.”
“I know you can, Sutter. But this’ll kill two birds with one stone for me.”
“Do you have beef with Otterhammer, too?”
“That’s one way of putting it.” He raises his brows. Yeah, okay. I see how it is. They might need the same talking to Alderchuck and I got at the beginning of this season.
“Yeah, fine. Go nuts.”
The puck’s barely dropped. Crawford drops his gloves, and every hockey fan knows what that means—goaltender fight. They’re so rare and with good reason, it tends to set off mayhem. This one’s no different.
Otterhammer’s stick and gloves are gone. He heads for Crawford like a heat-seeking missile with the linesmen quick to intercept. But it’s already too late. Fights break out everywhere. All over the ice, it’s madness.
As soon as he’s in the door, I’m on him. We’re breathing heavily, sucking face. I work on getting his clothes off as fast as I can. I slam him against the back of the door.
“Fuck, Sutter.”
“I want you so bad, kitten.”
I maul him some more while he’s shirtless, tweaking his nipples, teeth scraping his jaw. I sink my fingers deep into his hair.
This is mine. He’s mine.
