Page 4 of Poetry On Ice
“Coach said half-strength, you dick.”
My lips twitch at the corners. A smile, a sneer, I can’t tell which. I lean forward, putting my hand out to help him up. Two can play this game.
“That was me at half-strength,” I say.
When he puts his hand out to take mine, I pull away just before we make contact. His face transforms before my eyes. There’s a furious flash of jade and his top lip pulls into a snarl that gives me a clear view of his mouthpiece.
See?
Told you he isn’t as sweet as he looks.
I admit, the sight of him like that, unmanned, on his back with his legs splayed open, gives me a rush. Adrenaline hits my bloodstream. My heart beats harder and faster, spreading warmth throughout my body.
I put my hand out again, and this time, our gloves knit together and I pull him up. As he finds his balance, I glance back at the bench and then lean closer to McGuire and say, “Fix your face, Princess, or they’ll all know you’re just as much of a dick as I am.”
There’s another flare. A flicker of rage that makes his eyes narrow. I love it. I love seeing him like this. And for so little effort.
Maybe it won’t be so bad having him on the team.
I release his hand and sweep my glove over his face, dusting his nose and cheeks just hard enough to give him the little bump he needs to take him from annoyance to fury.
It works.
He slaps my hand away.
I shove him.
He shoves me back harder, clenching his fist around the neck of my jersey and pushing me roughly. If I didn’t know who he was, the sudden violence of the action would have sent me skidding backward. Unlucky for him, it’s been years since I bought into his butter-wouldn’t-melt act, so I brace myself.
“Aw, what’s the matter, Princess? Too pretty to play?”
He shoves me again. His face is red and twisted, blotchy, and not nearly as pretty as it was a few minutes ago. I push him again. I use both hands this time because why the hell not. If I don’t, he will. The force, the exertion, the intention to attack and defend take over. My temperature rises. There’s heat everywhere, the kind of heat that feels like excitement. In my face. In my hands. Behind my eyes.
It’s hard to say who punches first, but suddenly, we’re both throwing hands—hard, unbridled punches that land on chest pads and glance off helmets. Coach is yelling and crossing the ice to get to us, and Luddy and Katz are on us, forcibly dragging us apart. McGuire and I are stuck to each other like magnets, snapping and snarling until they manage to put enough distance between us.
Coachhas us cool down in separate stations. He keeps a watchful eye on both of us, though judging by the way he's looking at me, he’ll have a lot to say to me after practice.
Ugh.
Every eye on the team is on me. Slow, judgy looks from guys who are supposed to be my brothers. They’ve known McGuire for less than a minute, and they’ve already formed their opinion about who the asshole is in this equation. Nice.
Before practice ends, Coach has a quiet word with Luddy, tipping his head in McGuire’s direction as he talks, no doubt saying something along the lines of, “Talk to him, but be nice ’cause he’s the babiest babygirl in the whole wide world, so make sure he gets special babygirl treatment.”
“Decker,” he barks when he’s done. “My office, now.”
Santos is a decent coach. Fair and consistent. I don’t agree with everything he does, but I respect the man. He’s earned it. One thing I can’t pretend to like is his verbosity. God, he’s long-winded. Wordy in the extreme. Fortunately, I’ve had quite a lot of experience of being talked at by him, so I stand in front of his desk and let my mind wander. I drift for a while, planning my dinner—a meal that threatens to be more elaboratethan I have the ingredients or know-how to put together—and then mentally check off the last few things I need to get done before our first game.
Now and again, I flit back into the conversation, looking at my feet and grunting in a way that resembles a close enough apology to placate him.
“Now let that be the end of it, you hear me?” Coach says with a finger pointing in my direction.
“Yes, Coach!” I reply with gusto.
The more I think about it, the more I believe I could make the creamy garlic parmesan chicken that popped up on my feed this morning. I don’t have cream or parmesan at home, but what if I use milk and cheddar? How much difference would that really make? It’s basically the same thing.
I take a slow amble to the locker room and am pleased when I find it nearly deserted. I have a strict limit in the amount of peopling I can handle with grace, and locker room banter has been historically proven to push me over that limit.
Fuck. I spot a couple of reporters as I leave the arena and head to my car. They have lariats with press passes around their necks, so they must have been at a press conference or something, but they shouldn’t be down here. I know it’s part of the job, but seriously, imaginespending your life waiting around in parking garages on the off chance you get to run into a player? I’m not judging, but it’s not my idea of a good time.