The ref pointed at Gage and signaled the infraction. “Number six, two minutes for tripping!”
The Blizzard team captain, Dave Grimson—“Grims”—whacked Gage on his calf. “Could’ve been worse, Admiral. At least he didn’t get a penalty shot. Take your two minutes and get your head right. Me and the boys will kill this off.”
Admiral. Somehow Gage had been labeled with the moniker in San Jose, and like many incongruous nicknames, it had transferred over to Denver when he’d been traded two years ago.
He skated to the sin bin with a headshake. The penalty box wasn’t a spot he normally visited. The door closed behind him as he stepped inside and sat on the bench. He sucked in a breath, watching his team, now a man short, trying to keep Boston off the scoreboard. Fiddling with his helmet, rearranging his gear, he tried to look as nonchalant as possible while fans yelled and banged on the glass surrounding him. Lots of words of encouragement peppered with the occasional “You suck!” rang around him. In other words, standard fare.
Penalties were part of the game; normally, they didn’t bother him. You go to box, you feel shame. But the blond was only three rows back, getting an unobstructed view of him serving his sentence. It occurred to him that if she could get a good look at him, he could get a good look at her. He stood up and faced her way, pretending to adjust his elbow pads. That’s when he realized it wasn’t Lily. Just someone with hair like hers. The pang of disappointment threw him off balance, his synapse relays as wobbly as one of his mini-mite players learning to skate.
He sat down hard and pigeonholed his bothersome thoughts to ponder some other day. It was time to focus on the penalty kill finishing up on the ice. His eyes traveled to the game clock—thirty-seven seconds left in his minor penalty.
Go, boys!
They did, but with only ten seconds to go, Boston scored a power-play goal. Gage came out of the box, and the same jerk center skated toward him. “Thanks for the gift, Nelson.” He gave Gage a little shove with his stick as he went by.
Gage was no hothead, but he’d reached his limit. The evening’s frustrations, his inability to keep thoughts of Lily caged, fused together and boiled over.
That’s it!
He took a few strides and shoved the asshole back. The guy rounded on him and laughed. Before Gage could react, someone crosschecked him from behind and flattened him on the ice. He popped up, wheeled, and faced Boston’s heavyweight—Cal Beaumont. Their quasi-enforcer, a giant of a grinder with feet made of stone and fists to match. The guy also had three inches on Gage and about thirty pounds.
“C’mon, you little pussy,” Beaumont taunted as he threw down his gloves.
Gage shook his own gloves, but before he could rid himself of them, T.J. skated in front of him, blocking his access to Beaumont.
“Out of the way, T.J. You’re third man in.”
T.J.’s gloves were off in a nanosecond, his fists cocked. “Not this time.”
The audience went into a frenzy, screaming for blood as T.J. and Beaumont, two massive men, sized each other up. Another Boston player grabbed Gage around the chest and hauled him backward. Each player on the ice had hold of an opponent as though pairing off for a dance. But all eyes were fastened on the main attraction: the showdown between two evenly matched titans. That is, they were evenly matched in size and fighting experience, but T.J.’s playing ability was light years beyond Beaumont’s.
Beaumont threw the first punch and missed, but T.J.’s answering blow connected. Fists flew between the two like Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots. The fight was over in seconds, leaving both men winded but upright. The home crowd went wild, raining down cheers and shrill whistles.
A short while later, Gage and T.J. both sat in the box, matched by two Boston players on the opposite side.
The crowd roared, and Gage snapped his attention to the jumbotron, where T.J. and he were on full display as they sat in the box. The camera moved to the two Boston players serving penalties, and the crowd booed. Back and forth it went.
“Take a bow, Admiral. You’re tonight’s entertainment,” T.J. chuckled as he inspected his chin strap.
“You shouldn’t have jumped in,” Gage groused. “Not on my account.”
“You were on your way to getting your ass kicked. I couldn’t let that happen, now could I? No one messes with my center.” T.J. part-laughed, part-growled. “Besides, who else is gonna set me up for all those sweet goals I’ve been racking up lately?”
Embarrassed he hadn’t fought his own fight—he’d never been a fighter, but still, he should’ve taken his own licks—Gage hid his unease with a well-timed grunt.
T.J. grabbed a water bottle and squirted water in his mouth. “What started it?”
“They were doing a lot of chirping out there.” Lame answer, but it was all Gage had at that moment.
“Well, next time pick on someone your own size.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time one of their players pisses me off,” Gage said dryly.
T.J. turned and gave him an appraising look. “Guys don’t normally get under your skin. What’s really eating you tonight anyway?”
Gage lied. “Nothing.”
“Yeah, right,” T.J. said with a chuckle.
Gage had known T.J. long enough to know he wouldn’t push. They’d become buddies when they’d been traded from the Bay Area together. Gage had been in shock, and T.J. had helped him navigate Denver and the choppy waters where Gage had landed after the surprise trade.
Though Grims was the captain and wore the C on his sweater, T.J. wore an A as assistant captain because he’d become the heart and soul of the team. Gage wore the other A, and while he was beyond honored, he was still scratching his head over why they’d given it to him in the first place. “Because you’re the perfect guy for it,” he’d been told. Yeah, right. Perfect he
