so far, we’re playing a good damn team and they are kicking our asses. We’re tied up two to two in the third period with ten minutes left. Preston is, once again, in the sin bin. The puck drops and I jump for it, flinging it to Paul. He passes it to me and I send it to Brendon to try for the net. It’s blocked by the goalie, making everyone scramble for the puck. The other team gets ahold of it and races toward our goal with us chasing them back to our territory. Their left winger slams into our right D man, the puck is knocked around and I lose it in the shuffle as four players fight for it.
Someone’s stick hooks my leg, pulling my skates out from under me. My head hits the shoulder of the left winger, flinging my helmet off. His elbow comes up and cracks me in the face hard enough to stun me. When I hit the ice, my head bounces and I have to shake it to clear it. Whistles blow around us, the coaches are yelling, someone falls on me, somehow managing to hit me in the same spot, and the ice is flooded with team members from both sides. A fist fight breaks out and someone falls on me, knocking the wind out of me.
I manage to get out from under the pile of fighting hockey players and look around at the chaos. Refs are attempting to break up the fights, Preston is straddling the chest of a guy in a red jersey, punching him in the face with his bare hands.
‘What the fuck?’ Blood is pouring down my face, making it hard to see, but I start for him. I’m stopped by someone grabbing my arm. Spinning around with my fist raised, I drop it when I see Paul.
‘Come on, you’re done. Gotta go see medical.’ He pulls me along like I’m going to argue. He’s right, I am going to.
‘It’s a fucking cut, I’m fine!’ I pull out of his grasp and catch movement to my right. A few players are trying to pull Preston off the player on the ice but he’s fighting them off too. Fuck.
‘Preston!’ I holler, shaking Paul loose and skating toward him as quickly as I can. ‘Let him go!’ I shove the big bastard as hard as I can to get his attention. ‘Get off him! You’re going to get suspended, you dumb fucker!’
He looks up at me with fury in his face, those gray eyes a bottomless pit of pain and torment. For a second, I’m frozen. Why is he looking at me like that? It’s a punch to the gut.
‘Come on.’ I grab his arm to pull him back on his feet, wiping at the blood to get it out of my eye.
The ref yells behind me, ‘You’re out of here! Game misconduct penalty! One game suspension!’
God damn it.
The ice is cleared of players, someone is scraping the blood off the ice and pouring water on the scuff marks to refreeze. Coach is furious as we get to the box. I have a towel shoved at me for my face. I wipe at the blood and sit down on the bench, fully intending to continue playing. Preston is marched down the tunnel for the locker room to get changed since he’s been kicked out of the game. One of the EMT’s with a medical bag stands in front of me with gloves on, takes the towel from me, and looks at the cut.
“We have to get that cleaned up. You’re probably going to need stitches,” he tells me. “You’ll also need to be checked for a concussion.”
“Oh, come on!”
The EMT cleans the wound and messes with it a bit before bandaging it.
“You need stitches,” he says, and I growl in frustration.
“Just butterfly it and move on. I’m fine!”
He shakes his head at me.
Coach looks over at me, his eyebrows pulling low on his eyes. “Albrooke, go. If you don’t have a concussion and the doctor clears you, you can come back.”
“We’ll take him in,” the guy says to Coach, who nods and turns his attention back to the ice where they’re getting the game started again.
“Fuck!” I yell, standing up and throwing my stick in frustration. “This is bullshit. I don’t have a fucking concussion!” Anger has my hands shaking and my blood hot. Now I want to punch someone.
One of the assistant coaches leaves with us to follow behind the ambulance so I have a ride back to the rink.
I stomp down the tunnel with the EMTs, grumbling the entire way to the ambulance.
When I pass the locker room, I try to get a glimpse of Preston, but I don’t see him. Another of the assistant coaches is in there standing with his arms crossed, looking pissed off.
“How long is this going to take?” I demand as I climb into the ambulance. I’m going back out there. This is bullshit. It’s a god damn cut.
“I don’t know, hopefully not long.”
I missed the rest of the game and have three stitches in my forehead, but I can play tomorrow as long as I have another clear CT scan before the game. By the time I’m showered, changed, and heading back to my room, I’m tired, angry, and confused.
What the fuck was with Preston tonight? He fucking lost it out there. I know first-hand how hard of a player he is, but that was crazy.
My phone is full of text messages and missed phone calls from all of my family members. I might as well get this call out of the way.
I pull up my mom’s number and call her on video since I know she won’t accept anything less.
“Jeremy Rodger Albrooke!” she yells my name, fear clear in the lines of her face.
“Hey, Mom. I’m okay. Promise. Just a few stitches.” I adjust the camera so she can see the stitches through the clear bandage above my eyebrow.
“I never should have let you move to that school. You should have stayed home and gone to school here!” She barely takes a breath before continuing. “Is it too late to move back?”
I can’t help the smile tugging on my lips. She’s the best mom and, if she’d had her way, none of her kids would’ve ever left the nest.
“I’m fine, I promise. I was checked for a concussion and the CT scan was clean. As long as I have another one tomorrow and it’s also clean, I can play. I’m fine.”
I make my way into the dorm building and get on the elevator.
“I’m also not transferring. This is an amazing school, the team is great, and I have some friends here.”
My dad appears on the video. “Hey there, bud, you all right then?”
“Yeah I’m good, Dad, just a bump on the head. I’ve gotten worse messing around with Jordan and Keith.”
“All right. Take it easy, huh?”
“Will do, Dad. Love you.”
“Love you too, bud.” He hands the phone back to Mom.
I reach for my door and am relieved to find it unlocked, but when I open it to find Doctor Carmichael standing in the middle of our room, I freeze.
“Uh, Mom. I’ll call you later, love you.” I end the call before she can respond.
What the fuck is he doing here? A quick scan of the small space tells me Preston is not here.
“How did you get in here?” Nice one. I’m sure Mom wouldn’t smack you upside the back of the head for that.
I step inside and close the door. If I’m going to pop off at this guy, I don’t need an audience.
The impeccably dressed man looks at me like I’m gum stuck to the bottom of his expensive shoe. He’s never done anything to me, but I don’t trust him. Everything about him makes me uneasy, makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“Where is Charles?” He ignores my question like he has every right to be in my personal space.
“I don’t know. I’ve been at the ER.” I point to my head like it isn’t completely obvious. Was he not at the game? Did he not see the fight break out? Isn’t that why he’s here?
His demeanor changes when he notices the transparent bandage on my face covering my stitches.
He walks toward me, grabs my face and turns it toward the light to get a better look.
“What the fuck? Get off me!” I shove at him, but he’s stronger than I expected. His fingers dig into my face as he holds tight.
“They didn’t do you any favors with this,” he says, more to himself than to me. He lifts a hand and runs his finger over the wound and I hiss, jerking back from him. “Stop moving,” he chastises, like I’m a petulant child who won’t hold still.
The door opens behind me, making me jump and pull my head toward it to see who it is. Preston stands rooted to the floor, his eyes locked on his dad’s grip on my face.
“What the hell are you doing?” Instantly, he’s radiating with some mix of fear and rage. I know he’s scared of his dad, but tonight, he’s proven he’s overly-protective of me. To be honest, I’m a little afraid of what is going to happen next.
“Inspecting your friend’s wound.” Doctor Carmichael dismisses Preston and forces my face back into the light. “If I had my kit, I could fix this. It’s a shame to scar such a pretty face.”
What. The. Fuck.
His finger once again traces over the wound and I swear he gets hard. He’s close enough to me that I can feel it. I’m so shocked by it, I don’t know what to do. I want to knock him out.
Preston shoves his way between us, forcing his dad to let go of my jaw or bruise me. The expression when he looks at his son promises retribution.
“Stay away from him.” Preston is firmly pressed against my chest. I know he doesn’t like to be touched, but he put himself here. I take a step back, completely weirded out by what is happening here.
“Charles, since when do you order me around?” The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife and there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s so much happening here that I don’t understand. How can I fucking help if I don’t know what’s going on? What is it about Preston’s life that his dad needs to control? What is he holding over Preston?
“He’s not part of this. Leave him alone,” Preston reiterates.
What does that mean?
Doctor Carmichael smacks Preston’s face, leaving a bright red handprint on his cheek. Preston’s nostrils flair, his chest expands with the force of his breathing, but he doesn’t retaliate. What the fuck?
