Page 3 of Omega’s Forward

That damn memo. Damned sponsors getting all jelly-livered. They’re not the ones down here on the ice.

I raise my eyebrows at Sacco. He doesn’t shake his head and that’s how I know I’ve got his approval.

It’s one thing to play nice. It’s another to let someone like Dorn know he can do what he wants to us and we’ll just take it.

I need to take him down so hard that he doesn’t think about it again. There’ll be a price, but I’ll just pay it. I’m Captain. It’s part of the job.

Dorn steps out of the box two minutes later, grinning.

I catch him before the linesman gets between us.

“Right now,” I say, and drop my gloves.

His are already half off. He’s been waiting for this all night. That’s what people don’t understand about guys like Dorn. Most of us fight because the job sometimes asks for it. Dorn took the job because of the fighting.

A split second and we’re on each other.

He’s fast and he’s filthy. His first punch opens the old scar over my eyebrow. The blood runs hot into my eye. Fine.

I’ve got four inches and thirty pounds on him. I’ve also got fifteen years of knowing exactly how this goes.

I get a fistful of his jersey, pull him off his base, and hit him three times, short and hard as I can.

On the third one something in the middle of his face gives. He tries to jerk free and duck inside, and I feel the seam of his jersey tear under my grip. My helmet’s gone, I don’t know when.

He’s trying to get away but I’m not letting him. I lean forward and mutter close to his ear so he can hear it. “This ends now. Try this shit again and next time I’ll kill you.”

I punch him in the face again and again. Somewhere under the roar I can hear our bench pounding the boards flat-handed.

The linesmen let it run a couple of seconds longer than they have to. Even they’ve had enough of him tonight.

They pull us apart with the whole building on its feet. I taste copper. My knuckles are burning. Dorn is dripping red onto the ice. He blinks at me. He got exactly what he came for.

Dorn gets five. I get five plus two for instigating and a ten-minute misconduct stacked on top, because I dropped my gloves first and the refs have all read the same memo we have. Fine. I knew the price going in. But that’s not going to be the last of it.

The game goes on.

On my way into the box, I look up. Gordie is on his feet in the owner’s box, applauding, both hands over his head, beaming down at me like it’s opening night.

The attendant hands me a towel and a water bottle without being asked. I sit down and press the towel to my eyebrow and try not to smile.

I take stock. Hands aching. Eyebrow open again. The false tooth held on, which is good; the team dentist and I already see too much of each other.

Up in the crowd, I hear someone shouting my name. There’s an omega up there I don’t recognize. She’s got a big sign that says “Marry me, Brody.”

I grin and wave, and I hear her squeal in a pitch that’d set dogs barking.

Some of the guys love the hockey groupies. There’s always someone willing to throw themselves at you. I had a few one-nighters early in my career when I was still green and didn’t know any better.

It’s never been worth it. I tried dating too but I play eighty-two games a season. No one sticks around for that. These days, my life is the game. It’s perfect.

Across the ice, Dorn sits in the visitors’ box with tissue twisted up one nostril, blood drying on his chin, and he isn’t watching me.

He’s watching Linus. He catches me looking, taps two fingers on the glass, and mouths something I’m glad I can’t hear.

Cold crawls up the back of my neck. For fuck’s sake. What is wrong with the guy?

Men like Dorn don’t stop. They test and they test, and one night the whistle will be late and the kid won’t get up. Somebody is going to get badly hurt before this season is over.