Behind the Net: Chapter 62

THAT EVENING, the arena’s energy is tense. The players, the coaches, the fans—everyone’s on edge, including me.

He texted her. The memory of Pippa’s face this morning replays in my head, and my blood pounds with fury. Pippa is mine, and he has the fucking audacity to reach out to her.

Before the game, she reluctantly showed me the list of attendees. He’s going to be at the gala, and I know it’s because of her.

You don’t have to go, I told her. My attendance is mandatory, but hers isn’t.

Instead of cowering, her nostrils flared, she tilted her chin up, and determination flashed in her eyes. I’m going, she said. I’m not going to let him scare me away.

My fucking heart. Pippa has it in the palm of her hand.

On the ice, the other goalie catches the puck and the whistle blows. My shoulders tense as I watch Miller and Volkov exchange heated words.

I don’t know what Calgary’s coach is playing at, but our team has been taking nasty hits all night. The refs don’t seem to notice, which only fires up the fans and our team even more. Miller’s back to his usual cocky, fight-provoking self.

The bad energy hangs in the air like a mist. There’s going to be a fight, I can feel it.

One of Calgary’s defensemen crosschecks our third line forward long after he passes the puck.

Still no whistle.

Volkov yells something at the other team’s player, and the tension bubbles into a boil. Miller skates between them, grinning like a sly cat, but there’s no humor on his face. He’s different tonight. Colder. Unhappy. Pissed off.

He looks like his dad, who’s a rich, miserable asshole, and as I watch Miller get in Volkov’s face, I wonder how much of that got passed on.

Play resumes. Our team tries to get the puck in the Calgary net, but Miller wedges his stick between Owens’ legs. The fans are on their feet, booing and calling for a penalty.

The whistle blows as Calgary’s goalie catches the puck, and I turn to get a drink of water, locking eyes with Pippa behind the glass. She smiles and gives me a small wave, and I nod at her, spraying water through my mask, thinking about how good she looks in that jersey. My jersey. My chest pulls tight at the sight of her, here, supporting me, wearing my name proudly.

This girl is everything to me.

The players line up to resume the game, and I get into the ready position. The whistle blows, and Miller trips one of our guys.

It’s like he’s not even trying. Like he doesn’t care about hockey. When he cares, he’s unstoppable, and that’s probably why he’s still on the fucking team. The spark he used to have for the game is gone, though.

Finally, he’s thrown into the penalty box, and the arena hollers and jeers. People slam their fists on the glass, and he shakes his glove off before flipping them the bird.

I inhale sharply. I see it now. He used to pull this shit when we were teenagers. His dad would say something to upset him, and he’d hit the ice in a mood. He antagonizes players, he fires up the fans, he makes himself the villain so everyone will see him like he sees himself. The guy hates himself, and he’s flailing out here, hoping someone will give him what he deserves.

When his two-minute penalty is over, he skates back into the game, capturing the puck immediately and heading straight to my net. He slaps the puck at me. It pings off the pipe—fucking lucky—and a moment later, he crosschecks me.

My temper ignites, and my blood whooshes in my ears. The whistle is distant because fans roar around us, rattling the glass.

“What the fuck?” Owens bites out, getting in Miller’s face.

Miller’s eyes challenge me. The energy cracks around us, sparking and buzzing with tension.

“What’s the matter, Streicher?”

“You’re in a fucking mood tonight.” I tap Owens, indicating for him to move out of the way, and he skates back, watching us. The rest of the players are circling, waiting, watching.

“Fight, fight, fight,” the fans chant from behind the glass.

The fight I felt in the air—it’s me and Miller.

We’ve only fought once. We were sixteen. He showed up for practice in a foul mood after something his dad said, and he pulled all the same shit he pulled tonight.

“What?” He cocks an ugly, hateful grin at me. “You going to hit me? You, up in your ivory tower? Jamie Streicher, the most responsible guy in the room.”

The noise around us fades away as I glare at him, gritting my teeth at his baiting.

“Come on,” he spits at me, eyes flashing. “I deserve it, don’t I?”

My fists clench. He was the one who changed. He was the one who turned into a fucking asshole. He used to care about hockey. Now it’s a big fucking joke to him.

Everything’s a joke to him.

“Go on,” he goads.

Blood rushes in my ears. In the NHL, both players need to agree to a fight, or the player who instigates will get a penalty while the other doesn’t.

All the anger I’ve held inside for years at the guy who used to be my best friend bubbles to the surface, overflowing, and I rip my gloves off.

The crowd roars. Goalies almost never fight.

I pull my helmet off, and the glass behind me shakes from the fans. The refs and linesmen circle us, ready to break up the fight when it goes too far. Until then, they’ll let us deal with it, because this is how the score is settled in hockey.

I don’t dare look at Pippa. I can hold my own in a fight, but I don’t want her worry and concern in my head as I do this.

“Fucking finally,” Miller snaps, and I remove my goalie pads and toss them aside.

I skate at him, and his fist flies. I block his punch before throwing my own. It connects with his jaw, and a second later, his fist sears the outer corner of my eye.

It hurts, and it feels good.

Chaos breaks out around us. Fists fly as players let the pressure off, clutching each other’s jerseys as they land punches. The energy in the arena boils over. I’ve never heard it this loud in here. My blood beats hard, flooded with adrenaline as Miller and I take out our aggression on each other.

The fight is all instinct, all primal rage. I’m gripping his jersey, he’s gripping mine, and we’re hitting each other. The pain feels cathartic, and my face is wet. There’s blood in my mouth and more trickling down from Miller’s eyebrow.

Whistles blow left and right, and it’s a tangle of limbs, helmets rolling around on the ice, guys sitting on each other, jerseys getting ripped.

The fans are going nuts.

I land one more punch and wait as Miller straightens up, the linesmen struggling to pull us apart. The fight dies from his eyes as he catches his breath, watching me.

“Done?” he asks.

He means the fight, but I think he means this seven-year tension. I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth. Blood smears over my skin. My chest heaves for air, and adrenaline whistles through my veins.

Something shifts between us, and my anger deflates. I don’t want to be angry anymore. I just want to move on. I glance at Pippa, who’s peeking through her hands with a worried expression, and my heart clutches.

I don’t want to hold a grudge, because life is too short and sweet. I give Pippa a nod to say I’m okay.

On the bench, I expect Ward to be livid as players get hauled into the penalty boxes, but instead, his smile stretches from ear to ear.

“Yeah,” I tell Miller, meeting his gaze. “Done.”