Page 63 of Monstrous Serpent

Their bench jumps up screaming. The ref's arm twitches halfway up, then lowers. He skates straight at Hunter instead.

“Hey, twenty-two.” He jabs a finger at Hunter's chest. “You ride that line again, you're gone. You understand me?”

Hunter skates closer until the ref’s finger is actually touching him. “Then make the call or get out of the way.”

“Last warning, twenty-two. Next one's a misconduct.”

If I don't get over there in the next three seconds, this is going to become a much bigger problem. I skate up and bump Hunter’s shoulder. Same bump I've been using since sophomore year of high school. “Hey, dude. You good, or no?”

Nothing.

Not even a grunt.

“Hunt.” I lean closer. “Come on, man. We're up by one. I need you out here.”

He skates toward the bench without looking at me.

My molars grind. That hit wasn't Hunter. I mean, yeah, it was, but not the version of him that plays hockey. Hunter's hits have a point—close the gap, take the angle, put the guy down, and get the puck.

That was just violence wearing a jersey. He wanted to hurt somebody, and the nearest body happened to be wearing UConn colors. And I already know what set him off because that fucking photo has been burning a hole in my brain since last night.

UConn’s winger gets to his feet, spits blood onto the ice, then skates past me on the way back to his bench. “Your boy needs a leash. Or does he save that psycho shit for when you two are alone?”

My stick snaps across his chest before I even think. I drive through, two‑handed, and he crumples. The whistle blows the instant his ass hits the ice.

“Four, you’re done. To the box.”

As I skate toward the box, Nakagawa is sitting on the ledge of the dasher boards, legs spread wide, grinning at me. “Yo, I thought this was gonna be a challenge. But you guys keep benching yourselves for me. How very generous of you.”

“Dude, you've scored one goal, and it was from a rebound that bounced off your ass. Sit down.”

He laughs.

I slam the door to the penalty box and drop onto the bench.

God, I hate freshmen.

I unclip my chin strap, pull up the cage, and drag a hand over my face.

Great.

Two minutes for being an idiot. Coach Byfield is going to chew my ass out, and honestly, I deserve it because I just handed UConn a power play while we're up by one. All because some nobody chirped me.

We better not lose this lead because of me.

I spot Hunter.

He's still on the ice near the bench, not moving. He's just staring into the stands like something up there has him by the throat.

What the hell?

I lean forward, scanning the area he's locked in on. The student section is packed and loud and doing the same shit they always do. Green body paint, the drum guy, someone waving a giant foam serpent. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that explains why my best friend is standing on the ice like a damn statue.

“Kincaid! Get off the ice! Now!” Coach Byfield is waving him in, and man, I haven't seen that expression since Shaw set off the fire alarm in the athletic complex last spring.

Hunter hops off the ice, sitting at the far end of the bench, head tipped down even after the play starts.

I pull my glove off and rub the Patrick Star tattoo on my wrist.