Page 94 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

“I don’t get it,” I say, more to myself than her. “How are they a team if they fight each other?”

“It’s accountability,” Maddy yells in my ear. “Right? If you know you’re going to get your ass beat by your teammate after a loss, you give a hundred and ten percent every time.”

I nod.

The fight lasts minutes. Someone hands us a bottle of vodka, and I take a swig before considering the dangers. Pepper spray won’t really be helpful if I’m doped up. Maddy passes it along without taking a drink.

I end up swigging from two more bottles that seem to just find their way around, and I’m swaying by the time Penn emerges as the next fighter.

Forget that other guy being ripped. Penn has a lean, corded body. He flexes, and the crowd immediately reacts.

He’s fighting another guy I don’t recognize.

Figures.

“The other goalie,” Maddy says in my ear.

“I didn’t know you followed all of this so closely.”

She blushes.

I eye her with renewed interest, but then the fight starts. I step forward, toeing the line, as Penn and the other goalie come together in the center. Penn moves like lightning, dodging and striking back with hits to his opponent’s torso. He gets in a few quick hits, pummeling and then slipping out of reach.

Over and over.

The other goalie gets in a hit to Penn’s face, and his head whips to the side.

He spits blood and goes right back into it. This time, they seem content to stop fucking around and just trade blows to the face, until Penn gets in an uppercut that snaps his opponent’s head back.

The guy falls hard.

Penn’s chest is heaving, and I don’t know whether to run and check on him or cheer along with everyone else.

He disappears the way he came, swallowed by the crowd.

We watch the next three fights while I grow increasingly anxious. Penn doesn’t come back. I check my phone. I text him. But nothing.

“Final fight,” the emcee calls.

The crowd parts, and Oliver strides out. He’s shirtless, his muscles rippling. There’s a nasty bruise in the center of his stomach, and I vividly recall kicking him before they tossed me in the trunk.

He walks right up to me and appraises me.

I stare back. My heart thunders against my ribcage.

Did Penn say something?

Is he about to drag me into the ring?

There’s a few gasps behind us, but he shifts his body to block what’s happening behind him. There’s something in his expression… I don’t know, but I want to fall into his eyes. I reach out and touch the bruise on his stomach, and he catches my fingers.

Squeezes gently.

Finally, he moves enough so I can see?—

Bear.

He’s covered in bruises, his face swollen so bad, his eyes are forced almost completely shut. He walks in a shuffle, his left leg dragging. I’m not sure how he’s even standing, let alone entering the ring on his own. Every bruise reminds me of my own, until my chest has tightened so much, I might as well be wrapped up by a boa constrictor.