12. Grey

Grey

C hased by furious Canadians, I zipped down the rink, the screams of the spectators a mere buzz in my ears. All my focus was on the puck I slid between strokes of my stick, my teammate Steve, and the opposing team's goalie. The rapid there-and-gone thought regarding the trick I'd pulled in practice swept across my mind's eye.

I may not be able to pull that off…

I whisked the puck to Steve.

He dodged a Toronto Maple Leaf spun, passed the puck to Devon, who then instantly passed it back to me.

The puck hit the net.

The buzzer ending the first period screamed across the rink.

The half Canadian, half American crowd stood in the bleachers, yelling praises or insults, depending on their nationality. Holding my stick high over my head, I skated in circles as my Vipers collided into me, slapping my ass, ruffling my hair as I removed my helmet, and yelling wordlessly in triumph.

"Lucky shot, Aldine," snapped as he skated past on his way to his team's lockers.

"Grow a pair, Felson," I replied. "Then you might get lucky, too."

My guys roared with laughter, slapping my shoulders as we headed for our own lockers. My insult hadn't passed the Maple Leafs by, no, not at all. I received many a dangerous glance from narrowed eyes as they flew past us. But, I hadn't skated my way to the top of the league by being thin skinned. Hockey wasn't for the faint of heart.

"Good job, Aldine," Coach Hunt declared as we sat on our benches, swallowing water, removing our mitts. "We beat them in this round, we're in the playoffs. Let's not get cocky, however. Let's go over the plays again. Aldine, you―"

During the halftime, we discussed the plays we had practiced over and over in the past week, but incorporated Toronto's strengths and weaknesses into them. Just as the Maple Leafs were discussing ours. With our three points over their none, I knew very well their coach busily instructed them to draw blood.

"They'll be after you, Aldine," Coach said, pointing his finger at me. "They take you out, they have a chance to score big. I want the rest of you to look out for him. Got it? You see them try to pull anything, you make ‘em pay."

Murmurs and nodding heads met this proposal, many eyes on my face. The opposing team gunning for me was nothing new. Sucker punches, a stick slipped between my ankles, body slams to the ice or to the boards were all in a day's work for me.

Nor was I without my own wiles.

"Time," called a ref, sticking his head into the locker room.

"I mean it," Coach yelled as we stood, wobbling on our skates on the firm floor. "You watch Aldine's back. They're out for his blood."

So what else is new?

I smirked at the Maple Leafs' captain over the puck, curling my upper lip. He stared into my eyes, his fury glinting within his like twin burning chips of brimstone. I liked what I saw. An angry man seldom made smart choices, or acted with anything except his rage. Angry men made mistakes.

I counted on him to make one.

The ref dropped the puck.

The Maple Leaf hooked his stick around my right ankle, seeking to yank me off my skates and tip my ass onto the ice. With barely an effort, I slapped his stick to the side, stole the puck, and slammed my elbow into his nose as I zipped past him.

Skating with my team flowing around me, I fully expected to be called on my little escapade. Dimly, I heard the Toronto coach screaming at the refs, no doubt demanding I be called out for the foul strike.

I wasn't.

Not overly concerned, I ducked and dodged Maple Leafs, passed the puck, then swung wide around the opposing goalie and the net he guarded. A Maple Leaf followed me, certain I had something up my sleeve. As my team passed the puck around, hiding it, the Maple Leaf hung onto me like stink on shit.

I feinted to the right.

The Maple Leaf sought to block me.

Ducking to my left, I slid past him as if greased, collected the puck, then danced around the net. The goalie swung toward me, ready to protect his turf, his face behind his shield set and tight. No way was he going to let me shoot that puck past him for a fourth time.

I didn't.

Feinting again, my stick sliding the puck across the ice, I spun, then shot the puck toward Steve. On him fast, the Maple Leafs lost sight of the puck as I floated just outside the red pack. Steve, nimble and fast, broke free, returned the puck to me.

I sliced it past the goalie and into the net.

The crowd went nuts.

The buzzer sounded.

Vipers swept around me, protecting me from the Maple Leafs' vengeance. And we all knew how pissed the entire Toronto team was by now. Like a frenzied mob, they came for us, punching faces, body slamming my teammates to the ice.

"Fuckers," I yelled, blocking a blow to my head with my stick.

The crowd screaming in the background, we brawled across the ice, barbarians, bringing blood, punching, striking with sticks. Outside the bedlam, refs, coaches, assistant coaches, team members, all tried to halt the frenzied fighting.

Swept away from my teammates, I saw three Maple Leafs coming for me, sticks at the ready. I raised my own, relaxed, focused, no stranger to fighting for pride, for my team. I blocked a stick aimed at my head, ducked under the second, and hit the third Maple Leaf across the back of his knees.

He fell onto his back, bashing his head on the ice.

One down, two to go.

"You're dead," snarled Felson, and jabbed his stick toward my midsection.

I clashed my stick against his, blocking him from hitting me where it would hurt, and badly. My returning blow, my left fist, cracked him across the side of his head. My mitt absorbed much of the strike, yet he still stumbled back, his skates sliding out from under him.

Swinging back to the third Maple Leaf, I lifted my stick to block the swift attempt to knock me unconscious. I ducked. The stick flew over my head. Using the hardest bone in the human body, I sank my elbow deep into his solar plexus.

Jerking, he bent over, trying unsuccessfully to breathe, and dropped his weapon to the ice.

I never saw the Maple Leaf that hit me from behind.

Slammed into the boards face first, I saw stars swirling inside the blackness that overcame my sight.

His fist, without the heavy protective mitt, struck once, twice, three, then four times in rapid succession to my right ribcage.

Something cracked.

Pain, agonizing pain, flashed through my chest and back.

Just as four Vipers, a ref, and Coach Hunt dragged the Maple Leaf off me, I sagged to the ice, and collapsed.

***

"You can't play, Aldine," Coach snapped. "You're done. Forget it."

The team's doctor wrapped my cracked ribs in white strapping tape, hampering my breathing. The fire set in my chest and side hadn't subsided by much. Even so, pain didn't hurt unless you let it.

"Try to stop me," I grunted.

Coach rolled his eyes under the uneasy mutters of my teammates. "Planning your vengeance, are you?"

"You know it."

His hands on his hips, Coach Hunt stared at me with speculation. "It'll be the last thing they expect," he said. "Can you wait until the fourth quarter?"

I nodded, running my hand over my ribs.

"Let them think you're out of action," he went on, pacing. "We're four ahead. We play defense. Keep them away from our turf. We don't try to score until after the third ends. Are you sure you can, Aldine? This could put you in the hospital."

I smiled, and Coach Hunt recoiled slightly, blinking. "They'll wish they'd never started that fight."

The Maple Leaf who had busted my ribs was out of the game and may face financial and other penalties for his vicious assault. Felton and his gang were also out of the game, but as both teams fought like dogs, only the worst players were out. The videos clearly showed the Toronto players making the first attack, and Toronto faced harsh penalties for it.

Still, this game must go on.

I sat in the locker room, focusing on pushing my pain aside, practicing deep breathing, all but putting myself into a trance. I half listened to the crowd's roar as the third quarter continued, never hearing the buzzer that indicated a score from either team.

"Aldine, you're up," Coach called.

Time to pay the piper.

Rising, I headed for the rink, passing sympathetic team employees, many of whom slapped my shoulders in encouragement. My pain hadn't died as much as I'd hoped, yet once I started playing, my adrenaline rush would block the pain receptors.

A roar emerged as I skated onto the rink. Boos accompanied the cheers, and several Toronto players eyed me with both surprise and speculation as I took my position. My laser focus on the puck in the ref's hand sent my pain into the stratosphere.

The puck dropped.

I seized it a split second before Felson's replacement spun, and passed it to Devon. He in turn sent it flying past a Maple Leaf, only to have it stolen by another Canadian in a blue jersey. The stands went crazy, drumming the aluminum with their feet.

The Maple Leaf, protected by his teammates, skated fast toward our goalie. Zipping across the ice, I intercepted him, and our sticks clashed. Several Vipers joined the melee surrounding us, blocking the Maple Leafs who sought to push me aside.

Losing the puck, I chased the Maple Leaf. He blasted from the wildly milling group, the puck dancing between strokes of his stick. Edde crouched, ready to intercept it even as more Canadians raced to provide him cover.

The Maple Leaf shot the puck toward our net.

Eddie caught it.

Skating clear of the mob, I collected the puck the goalie sent me, then flew back across the rink. Steve joined me, protecting me as I set my aim on the opposing net. I didn't need to look over my shoulder to know the Maple Leafs pursued me with a red-hot vengeance.

"You got it, bro," Steve yelled.

The Toronto goalie skated to the edge of his turf, determined to stop me by whatever means necessary. I passed the puck to Steve, who feinted right. The goalie turned toward him.

Dodging left, Steve shot the puck in my direction.

Catching it, I fought to keep my possession of it as a Maple Leaf, knowing my current weakness, slammed his fist into my cracked ribs.

Agony exploded through my chest and back.

Coach Hunt screamed something unintelligible, loud enough that I heard him over the crowd's roar.

Steve body slammed the Maple Leaf away from me.

I staggered, fighting to stay upright on my skates and maintain possession of the puck. Ignoring the white-hot pain, the dizziness that came with it, I focused on the Toronto goalie and let my team deal with the opposition. It was just me and him now.

At the very edge of his territory, the goalie readied himself to move in any direction, to stop the puck from getting past him. Behind his protective mask, his eyes narrowed, his attention zeroed in on me, watching my every move.

I hadn't the strength for anything fancy. I needed speed. Rushing toward him at a breakneck pace, I slammed the puck toward the net.

The Maple Leaf goalie dropped to the ice in a dancer's split, stopping the puck with his skate.

The puck rebounded, sliding back toward me.

Retrieving it, I slid it past him with ease, the puck striking the net.

The buzzer sounded.

Someone hit me from behind. My forehead struck the net's frame. Despite my helmet, the impact was stunning.

Under the resounding roar, I went down, my vision blacking out. I hit the ice and unconsciousness pulled me under.