“Unacceptable,” I hiss at Jonah as I skate by. That kind of screw-up isn’t typical of Jonah Hemley. “Keep your head in the game.”

I don’t think he hears me. Or maybe he doesn’t care. When he and Davenport are tangled up against the boards during our next shift, Jonah starts up again. “Thursday night,” he’s growling. “Where were you?”

“Fuck. Off.” Davenport elbows Jonah hard and wins the battle for the puck.

I hit Davenport with a crosscheck and steal the puck, but once again Jonah is too caught up in whatever the hell this is. He doesn’t drive forward like he’s supposed to, and we’re offsides again. The whistle blows.

I don’t know what’s happening, and I don’t fucking like it.

The next faceoff is to the left of our net. As we line up, Jonah’s interrogation resumes. “Thursday night, asshole,” he spits out. “You were at the Brew Factory.”

“So what?” Davenport sounds annoyed.

“So you’re not denying it!”

“Why would I deny it? I was at the bar. Now shut the hell up.”

“The redhead you left with—you remember her?” Jonah demands.

My stomach drops, and I pray that the puck drops, too—now—because I’ve figured out where this is going, and it needs to be squashed. Now.

“Who? Violet? What do you care who I stick my dick in?”

“That was my girlfriend!”

As Jonah heaves himself forward, he knocks over the referee, who goes sprawling on the ice in a tangle of limbs.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!

“Hemley!” I thunder, but Jonah’s not listening.

He tackles Hunter Davenport, and his fists start flying. When Jonah’s gloves come off, anger sizzles up my spine, because dammit, this is cause for ejection. I try to haul him off our opponent, but he’s strong. He screams at Davenport for sleeping with Vi, while whistles blast all around us.

Davenport sounds genuinely confused. “She didn’t tell me she had a boyfriend! Jesus! Get off me!” He’s not even fighting back.

“I don’t believe you!” Jonah’s fist slams down. The whistles keep blowing.

Blood pours from the corner of Davenport’s mouth. He still has his gloves on, and he hasn’t thrown a single punch. If anyone gets kicked out of this game, it’ll be my guy and not Davenport.

I once against attempt to calm Jonah. Nate Rhodes, my rival captain, skates over and tries to give me a hand. Together, we succeed in yanking Jonah to his feet. He’s still beyond pissed. “He fucked my girlfriend!” Jonah shouts.

Another whistle blows. It’s chaos. Davenport manages to get up, but my teammate escapes the hold I have on him and lunges at the Briar player again, slamming him into the boards. Once again they fall to the ice.

Only this time, it’s accompanied by a loud grunt of pain.

I pull Jonah up again, but the agonized sound hadn’t come from him.

Davenport’s helmet comes off. He drops his gloves and cradles one wrist, pressing it against his chest. And he’s swearing up a blue streak, the pain in his eyes unmistakable. “You broke my wrist,” he snarls. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You fucking deserve it,” Jonah spits out, and suddenly there’s a blur of motion and Nate Rhodes lunges and drives his fist into Jonah’s jaw.

Other players spill onto the ice, and chaos becomes catastrophe. The whistles keep blowing and blowing as the refs try to regain control. But the control train left the station a long time ago.

30

Brenna

The second the buzzer goes off to signal the end of the first period, I jump out of my seat. So does Summer, but I rest my hand on her shoulder. “They’re not going to let you in.”

“How do you know?” she demands.

“Because I know my father. Hell, he might not even let me in. But if anyone has the chance, it will be me. I promise I’ll text you the second I know something.”

“Okay.” Summer looks shell-shocked, and the expression isn’t unique to her. Everyone around us is still beyond stunned.

Nobody knows what the hell happened down there, except that the game turned into some sort of bloodsport. Hunter left before the period ended, cradling his arm. So did Nate and one Harvard player whose name and jersey number I didn’t catch.

For the rest of the first period, we were missing two of our best players, but we somehow managed to hold Harvard off until the buzzer. There are two periods left and I have no idea what’s going on. Neither the referees nor the announcers up in the media booth revealed why those players left. In college hockey, fighting is not allowed. It can get you ejected. Except, Hunter didn’t start the fight, nor did he fight back. And I have no clue why Nate got involved. He’s usually more levelheaded than that.

I hurry out of the rink in search of answers. Other people are also leaving, so I elbow my way through the crowd as I walk toward the locker rooms. Dad always gives me a pass, just in case. It doesn’t guarantee entrance into the actual locker room, but it means I can access any off-limits areas. I flash my pass to a security guard and turn down another corridor.

Another guard stands near the visiting team’s locker room. “Hey,” I greet him, holding up my lanyard. “I’m Coach Jensen’s daughter and the team manager.” The second part is a lie, but I’m hoping it aids my case.

It does. The man quickly steps aside.

I open the door in time to hear my father’s voice. It sounds deadly as fuck. “What the hell did you have to go and do that for, Rhodes?”

I don’t hear Nate’s mumbled response.

I slowly creep toward where the players are gathered. Nobody notices me. Why would they? I’m hidden in a sea of big bodies that all tower over me.

“Well, Davenport’s out. He’s getting x-rays, but the team doc says she doesn’t need the scans to tell her the wrist is broken.”

My stomach drops. Dad doesn’t sound at all happy, and I don’t blame him. Hunter is out of the game.

“And Rhodes, you’ve been ejected for your part in the scrum.”

Holy shit. Nate’s out, too? They’re our best players!

“On their side, we have Jonah Hemley getting ejected. Which is no big loss to them.” Dad sneers. “The kid was filling in for Coby Chilton, who might’ve pulled a hammy. Except he didn’t pull a damn hammy, and now the power line is back in business.”

My God. This is a travesty. Panic weakens my muscles, because…we might actually lose now.

My father doesn’t vocalize my fear, but I know he’s thinking it, too. And he sounds enraged as he addresses his players. “What the hell went on down there?”

There’s a long, fearful silence. Fitz is the one who finds the balls to speak up. “From what I gathered, Hunter slept with Hemley’s girlfriend. Unknowingly,” Fitz adds.

“Is this a fucking joke? And if you’re going to screw one of their girlfriends, it couldn’t have been Connelly’s?” Dad growls. “At least then we wouldn’t have to worry about him.”

Even though I’m upset for my team, I have to swallow a wave of laughter—because I don’t think Dad would be endorsing anyone having sex with Connelly’s girlfriend if he knew it was me.