I stare after Quinton’s retreating form, still fuming from the verbal sparring match he coaxed me into having. Or maybe I started it this time. Honestly, it’s hard to tell anymore with every single shitty encounter leading into the next.
For the life of me, I wish I knew how to let his crap just roll off my back. Yet somehow, he bends and twists me in all kinds of knots every time he opens his damn mouth, forcing me to engage.
He’s the only person who’s ever been able to get a rise out of me.
You’d think after four years of playing together, I’d be immune to it by now. The taunts and the jokes and the straight-up insults. But nope, it still works to his benefit. Maybe even easier now, with having to spend so much time around each other.
No part of me wants to spend more time than necessary with him. Ending up on the same team with him was so far outside my plans for college, it’s laughable. So imagine my fucking horror when I was getting suited up for my first day of practice freshman year and he walked in.
If I was the violent type, heads would have rolled.
But we’ve reached the point in this stupid beef where the only thing I truly want is one day where we aren’t at each other’s throats.
Who knows, today might be that day. Starting…now.
Here’s to hoping, right?
Needing to channel this frustration into something a lot more useful, I head out to the rink after the dickhead, knowing one thing’s for certain.
I’ll feel better once I’m on the ice. I always do.
As far as the first game of the season goes, I can’t complain about how the team is performing as a whole. The chemistry is there, most lines working together seamlessly, both offensively and defensively.
The problem is Quinton…and me.
We don’t mesh on the ice. Never seem to be on the same page, and sometimes, it feels like we don’t even play on the same team. Then again, with all that time we spent as opponents rather than teammates, I guess it’s a little hard to train out of us.
All I can do is hope that the kinks get worked out as the season goes. Or we figure out how to stay out of each other’s way while being on the ice at the same time. And that appears to be working well, actually.
Except that Quinton’s version of staying out of my way entails acting like I don’t exist altogether. And by doing so, he also ignores me when I’m open to take a shot on goal, instead taking it himself—which only ends up being blocked by the goalie—or turning the puck over to the other team before he gets the chance. Either way, we miss out on a chance to score. Something kinda important to, I don’t know, win a game.
And it doesn’t just happen once, either. There are multiple occasions over the initial forty minutes of game play, and by the time we’re skating our way off the ice for a second intermission, I’m frustrated beyond belief.
And here I thought hockey players outgrew being a puck hog by now.
He goes to skate by me after the rest of the team, and in my irritated state, I make an irrational move, grabbing his arm to stop him in his tracks.
“What?” he snaps, harsh blue eyes locking with mine.
Deep, calm breaths. Don’t bite his head off, just offer a suggestion.
It would work except the suggestion comes off a little bit more like an insult.
“You’re not the only player on the team who can score, de Haas. You do know that, right?”
His nose wrinkles, giving me a look that reads a little something like are you fucking stupid. “Obviously. I’m not a child, Reed. I know how to share.”
I almost laugh at that. We’ll have to agree to disagree, I guess.
“Okay, well, pass the damn puck if you see I’m open.”
He continues staring at me for a moment, then just skates off to where the rest of the team is heading to the locker room without another word.
Okay then…
There’s no use getting into it with him here and now, so I just keep my trap shut and follow him to the locker room. But much to my pleasure, I overheard Coach pull him to the side on our way back out for the third period and rip him a new one for not passing the puck when Rossi and I are open.
“You’re a leader, now,” Coach bit out. “And leaders know sometimes you need to let others step in.”
While hearing Coach’s snappy comment made me preen a little, considering I had told de Haas the same fucking thing fifteen minutes ago, it also gut-punched me in the most unexpected way.
I’ve always done my best to embody what it means to be a leader and team player, not just playing well and doing my part on the ice but being someone the rest of the team could look to as an example. Something a captain should be.
And clearly, everything Quinton is not.
The guy’s talented, as much as I hate to admit it. He could make it big—I’m talking NHL big—if he wasn’t such a hothead. Or a raging douche canoe. But his habit for using his fists on the ice as much as his stick makes him more of a liability than an asset. Which is something I thought my uncle might’ve realized isn’t the makings of a good captain.
Guess I was wrong.
If it wasn’t for the hit I took at the end of last season—resulting in a broken collarbone and tear in my rotator cuff—I’d probably be the one leading this team. Hell, every person on the damn team knows it should be me. Yet here we are, with the title I’ve coveted for myself in the hands of the one person who shouldn’t have it.
My sworn enemy.
But at least Quinton seems to take Coach’s demands at face value, playing a lot more like a team player than a solo act to start off the third period. Even passes the puck off to me on a breakaway, allowing me to run with it and—
Out of nowhere, I’m slammed into the boards by one of their defensemen, and the impact sends a jolt of pain lancing through my shoulder. I freeze on impact, the defender taking the puck with ease, leaving me empty-handed and in a panic as the dull ache continues to spread through the entire limb. It takes a couple minutes for the throbbing to subside, so I know the hit probably tweaked a muscle or something, but it’s not any less nerve-wracking.
The last thing I need is a re-injury during the most important season of my career.
“Pass you the puck, only for you to pull that shit?” Quinton snarls. “Nice. Jackass.”
I watch as he takes off down the ice, attempting to stop Trenton College from scoring while irritation vibrates through my chest.
Quinton’s inability to keep his fucking mouth shut on the ice is the same reason I was injured. Instead of focusing on his game, he was too busy running his damn mouth to one of the defensemen from Waylon during the playoffs last season. All game. Until he finally had enough of Quinton’s crap. Unfortunately, that happened in the middle of a change on the fly, and instead of slamming Quinton into the boards and breaking his collarbone, it was me.
The fucking guy even told me he was going for de Haas, but the shuffling of all our players caused him to lose sight for one second and…well, the rest is history.
I went in for surgery a couple days later and spent my summer months going to PT multiple times a week, only barely feeling like I was at a hundred percent a couple weeks before practices started this season.
And none of that would have happened if de Haas knew how to keep his mouth shut. Yet another thing on the ever-growing list of reasons why this guy is the bane of my fucking existence.
I’m about to skate back toward where the rest of the guys are helping Cam defend the net, the forwards for Trenton on an aggressive offensive attack.
That’s when Trenton’s center, named Adams, checks Quinton into the wall. Hard. A lot harder than necessary. Meanwhile, the puck is sent sailing to the other end of the rink. Instincts tell me to skate after it, but the whistle blowing catches my attention and drags it back to where Quinton is crumpled to the ground.
A hush falls over the arena as everyone holds their breath, something that always happens when a player goes down.
Shit.
“Give him some room,” one of the officials commands, creating space around Quinton as he pulls his helmet off.
When Quinton raises his head, I catch it. The fire in his eyes burning brighter and hotter, just like when he’s about to—
Quinton lunges from the ground, grabbing Adams around the waist. They both go tumbling back to the ice, and de Haas rips the helmet right from Adams’s head as he’s pinned beneath him. I know what’s coming, and from the look on Adams’s face, he does too.
And with the first punch thrown by Quinton, the hockey arena has turned into a boxing ring.
Utter pandemonium breaks out as Quinton continues to land blows on Adams. The team boxes clear, everyone moving to the ice to either help break up the fight or start one of their own. The officials do their best to block anyone from getting closer, meanwhile a couple of our guys attempt to stop de Haas from using Trenton’s center as a punching bag.
Adams must get a shot in on Quinton too, because when Cam and Rossi pull Quinton away, his eyebrow is split, blood starting to spill down the side of his face.
That doesn’t seem to faze him though, because he shoves our guys away from him and surges toward Adams all over again, who’s only just gotten to his feet.
Okay, that’s enough.
I skate toward the hot-headed idiot, grabbing him by the collar yanking him away from Adams.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I snap, my teeth bared as I back him against the glass.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Rossi and one of the wingers for Trenton both holding back Adams, doing their best to keep the two from going in for a third round. Meanwhile, Quinton’s still seething in my grip. Foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, looking to take a massive bite out of Adams.
“He had it coming,” Quinton bites, his eyes still two furious balls of blue fire. The hottest flame there is.
“That might be, but you don’t need to escalate the situation,” I hiss, pushing against the boards harder as he fights against my hold. “You might’ve just cost us the damn game with this shit.”
A sneer paints his face. “Nah, Reed. You’re the one who doesn’t want to play like a team, needing to be the star of the show. Telling Coach I never pass you the puck? Turning it over when I finally do? That’s not a team player.” He scoffs. “If we walk away tonight with a loss, that falls on your shoulders. Not mine.”
He’s kidding me, right? I’m the one not wanting to play as a team? I’m the one costing us this win?
“You’re delusional.”
He arches his brow as if to ask but am I?
My voice comes out in a snarl. “You’re the one in charge on this ice. Not me. So instead of worrying about what I’m doing, why don’t you start showing some qualities of an actual leader?”
His brows clash together, nose wrinkling back in disgust. “I think it’s time you get over the fact that your last name wasn’t enough to get this position for yourself.”
Wow. He actually went there. Again.
“You’re unbelievable, de Haas. Classy as fucking ever.” I nod over toward the penalty box. “Enjoy watching me lead this team to victory while you’re in time out.”
He glares at me, wiping away the blood from his eyebrow with the back of his hand.
I’d hope getting punched in the face might teach him a lesson, but if history has proven anything, it won’t make a damn bit of difference.
“Captain material, my ass,” I mutter under my breath as I watch him skate his ass over to the sin bin and plop his temperamental ass down on the wooden bench.
Unfortunately, I’m full of shit by saying I’d lead the team to victory.
It’s actually the complete opposite of what happens when we get smoked during the five-minute power play, thanks to Quinton’s temper. And to make it worse, his absence on the ice makes it possible for Trenton College to score not one, but two goals.
Giving them the win.
The atmosphere in the locker room afterward is somewhere between abysmal and depressed, especially since we haven’t lost a home opener in years. Since well before any of us came to play at Leighton.
After the dressing down we get from Coach in our post-game meeting, most of us keep to ourselves, either jumping in the shower or ice baths to get cleaned up, as if that’s enough to wash away the stench of loss.
Braxton, who is one of my roommates, sidles up beside me as I redress. Both of us are aware of the way de Haas is banging around at his stall like the petulant child he is, still unable to get ahold of his rage, though we do our best to ignore it.
It’s embarrassing.
“Am I actually seeing this?” I mutter more to myself than anyone, but from the way Braxton nods in agreement, I know he heard me.
“I wish we weren’t.” He pauses, and we trade a quick glance. “We gotta do something about this, man. Or we’re gonna be in for a long season.”
“Like what? It’s not like we can just impeach him or something. Hockey isn’t a democracy.”
“It fucking should be.”
He makes a point.
I’m at a complete loss here, just like I bet half the team is. Because this sure as hell isn’t the way a captain should act or perform on the ice. Or off it.
“If we were still in high school, we’d just have to plant some weed or booze in his locker and he’d be done for.” I sigh, slipping into my shoes. “If only it were that easy now.”
“You’re telling me,” Braxton grumbles, falling in step beside me as we head for home. “But we’ll get him outta here. One way or another.”
