Page 90 of Monstrous Serpent

Coach Harper gave us nothing. No explanation, no timeline. Just told the team that Walsh and Henneman wouldn’t be playing for a bit.

Doyle glides up beside me as we loop back toward the shooting line. “You and me on the first line tonight.”

“I heard.” I scoop a puck off the pile at the blue line and let it sit on my blade. “We got this.”

Doyle juts his chin toward the other half of the ice where UConn is warming up. “Heard fifty-two is fast but plays dirty. Keep your head up.”

“Good. Dirty players are more fun to fight.”

I spot Nakagawa, who has planted himself in front of the net. When his goalie tries to shove him out of the crease with blocker bumps, Nakagawa just laughs, then does a forward spin through the blue paint, completely unserious.

“And nothing's affecting your game today?” He side-eyes me as we curl back toward center ice. “Legs good? What about your back?”

I punch his shoulder. “Fuck off.”

He grins and skates backward, hands up, as we slot into our line. “Just looking out for the team.”

“You are such an asshole. Not telling you shit anymore.”

Earlier this week, I was dragging ass through every drill. By the time we got back to the dorm, Doyle asked what was wrong, and I was so wiped out I told him I got fucked. Apparently, exhaustion makes me confess shit nobody asked about.

He stared at me for a full three seconds, then told me not to have sex before games, or he would personally beat my ass.

Couldn't even argue with him.

Grabbing a puck near the far boards, I run through a quick dangle—toe drag, backhand, forehand—not thinking about it, just letting my hands do what they've done a thousand times, when a puck hammers the glass just over my shoulder.

I jolt, head snapping up. “What the fuck!”

Knight glares, upper lip curling as he skates back toward the net.

Doyle whistles. “He’s more pissy than usual.”

“You think?”

Our defenseman has a busted lip and a bruise crawling up his left cheekbone that wasn’t there last practice.

“Who'd he get into it with?”

Doyle juggles the puck with his stick. “Nobody's gonna ask. You know how he is.”

The horn blares, and we glide toward the bench with the rest of the guys, stacking along the boards, the crowd growing louder behind us.

Home games are a spectacle. Between the school colors, the questionable signs they hold, and the way they stomp their feet to a particular rhythm, it feels more like a blood sport than a game. Not that I mind because the louder they cheer when I fight, the harder I want to hit.

Coach Nieminen leans over the boards and glares down the line. “Listen up. Finish your checks. Get back through the middle. Keep the shifts short and the changes clean. Stay out of the box. We set the pace, they react. Understood?”

Everyone on the team nods.

Coach Harper signals toward the far blue line. “Watch fifty‑two off the draw. He cheats high for breakouts. If he takes a run at anyone, you take a number, not a penalty.”

Nieminen straightens. “Go fucking destroy those Huskies. Or your asses will be in the stands the rest of the season.”

I hold out my fist. “Let's do this.”

Doyle bumps it. “All day, every day.”

Novotny taps his posts and drops into his stance. I line up on Doyle's right, Knight behind us at the blue.