Chapter Three

The energy of the arena was echoed by the energy on the ice.

Houston’s fans were loud and crazy, but so was the chirping that was happening throughout the game. However, the chirping led to more fights than we usually took, but sometimes you had to stick up for your men.

This was easily going to be the highest penalty minutes game I’d ever been a part of, and I was pretty sure my minutes tonight—in a measly fifteen minutes of play time—were the same as all the ones I’d racked up while playing in Moline last season put together.

Moline was a middle-ground team. They had good games and bad games, and generally made the playoffs by the peach fuzz growing on the rookies’ faces. I’d been the resident enforcer—even though I wasn’t usually a fighter. At six-two and two-twenty, I wasn’t even the thickest guy on the bench, but for whatever reason, I played with a presence that had guys backing off of our key players.

I’d played with grit and made sure my shifts were played in the fullest. But still, I never had as many penalties as I carried with me tonight.

It wasn’t even like we were fierce rivals with these guys.

However, losing game after game put sticks up asses, and we were definitely playing like a bunch of assholes.

The whistle was blown and all us guys on the bench moved down to make room, some of the guys on ice slipping into the bench while others stayed standing on the outside, waiting for Coach’s direction.

“We’re shaking up our second line, boys. Thompson, Kolak, Prescott. I want you out there.” We were the heavy hitters, the guys who usually played on the third and fourth lines. The puck would be dropped in Houston territory and we needed strength to protect Ketty, but we also needed guys who could play the puck well if we managed to take over possession. Our first line was just coming off a fairly heavy shift, so it would be up to us.

Coach drew out plays and soon we were on the ice, set up to Ketty’s left. It was a good spot; he was strong on this side.

At center, Kolak bent down, ready to fight the face-off. I glanced over to him, then at our two Defensemen; there were words being exchanged over by Polk, who was easily our strongest D-man, but the man kept his eyes trained ahead of him.

Crouching down to my own ready stance, I ignored the words being spewed by the kid next to me. The puck was dropped and soon the battle began.

We fought hard, but Houston fought harder, and while the puck managed to cross zones once, then twice, it quickly found itself slipping back behind Ketty and the net. Thompson and Houston’s Michael Vess were battling it out against the boards, each trying to gain possession; there may have been a sly elbow thrown in, but it wasn’t caught.

If it was—there were sometimes shady refs on ice—it wasn’t called.

Thompson kicked the puck out from the boards, and I stretched my stick out, but I wasn’t quick enough. Another of Houston’s players tapped it out of the way, quickly slipping around the side of the net and passing it between the post and Ketty’s right skate.

“Fuck!” I yelled aloud, not that it was heard over the screaming and yelling that moved around the arena.

Before I could turn to head into the bench, the yelling took a fevered pitch. I looked over my shoulder and watched as Thompson threw a mean right hook at Michael Vess. Whatever the hell had gone on against the boards pissed the rook off.

Probably that fucking jab to the gut.

I pushed off, quickly finding myself in the middle of the mess, grabbing Vess by his shoulders and pulling him back.

“Fucking asshole,” I hollered loud enough for Vess to catch. I pushed him away, only for him to come back at me, his free fist flying toward my face.

“You think you’re such a hotshot, Prescott?” he taunted, as I dipped to the side to avoid his fist. His other hand was wrapped in my sweater and I fought to shake my gloves off. “You’re just a fucking washout. Playing the fucking AHL.”

He tried for another punch as I mercilessly laughed. “Yeah, well, Dallas didn’t want to keep you around, so they signed you on a fucking one-way in Houston. Looks like someone is making a career in the AHL, douche.” My gloves hit the ground and I wound up my fist…

But my elbow was caught.

I glanced over. Ketty was holding me back as the refs came in, pulling Vess back.

Vess spat in my direction, but no other words could be said as the linesman came in and took my arm from Ketty. “Going in, Prescott.”

“Fuck that shit,” I said, trying to shake him off.

“Roughing.”

“Asshole,” I murmured, not necessarily meaning the zebras.

Overhead, the announcement was called. “Houstonnnnn GOAL! Goal by Michael Vess, no assists. Penalties called. Michael Vess, five for fighting. Jason Thompson, five for fighting. Noah Prescott, two for roughing.”

Once in the penalty box, I glared at the rookie, who glared right back.
“I had it,” he muttered, wiping at the shield of his helmet before placing it on the bench beside him.

“Looked like it.” I kicked my skate out at the door, my glare settling across the way to our bench.

So much for having a good game. This one wasn’t looking too promising.

***

The game was nearly over.

With less than a minute left on the clock, I had to battle that odd feeling of hope. We could do this. We were tied, and we could win this well before that final buzzer.

We could get our first win in way too fucking long.

I tore my eyes off the play action, looking toward Coach for any new direction. His scowl was directed on the ice; play would resume as originally planned. With that, I looked back at the game, trailing my eyes toward Thompson, who I was set to replace upon the end of his shift.

The signs were quick; the moment of change had to be done on a dime. Noticing my cue, I stood, waiting for Thompson to make his way back in. I leaned against the boards, my hip sliding down, then ass up, so I had a skate on the other side, ready to go when the time came.

In one quick, fluid motion, Thompson skated in and I jumped out onto the ice, skating with purpose toward the net. I situated myself near the crease so if the puck came, I could easily give it a ride home. With my eyes shifting around the ice, I made note of our guys.

Kyle Connor, a tall, lanky kid from Kansas, had control over the puck, skating it back and forth as he watched for one of us to be open, or for a clear shot on net. “Con!” I yelled over the chirping and fans, but quickly, I was covered and no longer open.

I pushed off, trying to move away, only to watch as Connor was slammed back into the boards--but not before sending a beauty of a slapshot to Troy Walters, our team Captain. Walters didn’t hang on to the puck long though; after finding myself clear of defenders, I slapped the blade of my stick on the ice, hoping he caught my intention.

His eyes shifted toward me, for all but a second, and he lifted the puck, sending it to roll along the rafters of the boards, where it finally fell, and settled, at my feet. It couldn’t have happened any more perfectly.

Of course, Houston’s men watched it happen, so I had to act quickly. I slipped the puck between my opponent’s skates, careful to not be called for an infraction. We didn’t need that shit right now. With a quick weave, I skated around one of Houston’s forwards and, like an artist at his easel, tipped the puck into the net.

All but for the noise of the cheers and slapping of sticks from the Beloit bench, the arena was silent.

Then, in loud unison, the place echoed with groans and “boos,” the sound waving around the arena just as the buzzer for the game went off, simultaneously with the buzz of the goal.

We did it.

In a terrible streak of losses, we found our feet.

And it was about damn time.