Page 132 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
And Carter is about to make a spectacle.
Or should I say we’re about to, since he has a death grip on my hand.
Sure enough, he makes a beeline for the ice. We stop at the double doors where the Zamboni drives in, although they’re closed and secured from the outside—our side—while practice is in progress.
Penn is in the crease working with a coach I haven’t seen before. The other goalie stands by, watching.
Everyone else seems to be working through specific plays with my father on the other end of the rink.
Oliver spots us and does a double take. His brows hike behind his helmet cage, and his mouth guard pops out. He chews on the end of it, seeming to consider us.
Carter undoes the metal arm holding the doors shut and yanks it open. He storms out onto the ice, his gaze locked on Oliver. He makes walking across the ice seem easy. Easier than easy. And there’s a furious intent swirling around him.
The good news is that he let go of my hand to go confront Oliver. It leaves me as a bystander out in the open. I could back away, if I wanted, and pretend I was never here. Minus Oliver seeing me.
The bad news is that I can’t hang Carter out to dry like this.
I step out onto the ice carefully, picking my way across much slower.
“Sydney?” my dad calls.
A whistle blows.
Carter is almost to Oliver. And damn it, he’s going to be fucking jumped?—
It seems like the whole FSU team draws closer, surrounding Carter as he reaches Oliver. The latter removes his helmet, a strange gleam in his eye. Confused but seriously fucking ready to be hit. Which makes no sense.
College hockey players have to play in helmets with cages over their faces. It certainly adds an interesting dynamic when there’s a fight, because the helmet has to come off. But if Oliver’s removing it before Carter even reaches him…
The first punch is solid. Carter puts his whole body behind it, like he knows he’s only going to get the one hit. Which is true, because two of Oliver’s teammates grab him and haul him back before he can do damage.
More damage.
I reach the circle of guys. Chaos breaks out. Their backs are to me. I shove at them, but on their skates, they’re too tall. More resembling trees than men. My dad is on skates, too, although I’ve lost sight of him. I can’t see anything beyond the rows of shoulders.
“Stop,” I yell, finally squeaking between two players and making it into the tight circle they’ve created.
Oliver’s gaze flicks over me, seeming to check if I’m okay, then zeroes back in on Carter. His lip curls, and he makes a show of taking stock of Carter, too. He wipes at his bloody lip with the back of his hand.
“You got your one hit,” he says in a low voice, skating close enough to Carter that it could seem like a conversation just between them. Like his voice isn’t carrying to all of us right now.
Their height difference… if they were both on skates, or both off, Oliver would still have an inch or two on Carter. But the disproportion makes Oliver tower over both Carter and me.
“Let’s leave it at that.” Oliver spits onto the ice. It’s red-tinged.
“OUT OF THE WAY.”
I flinch. I’ve never heard Dad yell like that, his voice booming. But his players react immediately, the tight circle I had to struggle to break through dissipating.
Dad glares at the two still holding Carter’s arms. As soon as they release him, Carter shakes out his arms and balls his fists.
“Name,” Dad demands of Carter.
He remains silent, his jaw working.
“Carter Masters,” I say when Dad’s gaze flicks to me. “Captain of the Seawolves.”
“I’m familiar.” He looks at Oliver. “Ruiz, get her out of here.”