Page 75 of Sticks and Stones (Shadow Valley U)

Evan drops into the spot beside me. “Dude.”

I glance at him, then back to the players on the ice.

“Channel all this rage into the game.” He elbows me. “It’s the least you can do.”

I take a breath. He’s right. I have an outlet that I haven’t been using. I focus on the way Wren makes me feel—in a word,pissed—and get up without responding. I move down the line to stand in the door. When our other left wing skates to the wall, I seamlessly take his spot on the ice.

Evan’s idea works. I skate faster, play harder. I chase after the puck with single-minded fury, beating out my opponent time and again. I hop over a player’s stick and pass to Sully, who gives it right back to me. My attention is already on the goalie, who flexes and drifts forward to meet me.

I snap the puck forward. It rebounds off the goalie’s arm block, flying toward Grant. Grant to Sully, back to Grant. Across to Evan, who rejoined us at the last change. A D-man for the other team is right on me, and I shove him back. He pushes into me again. I grunt out a swear and inch in front of him, just as Evan slips the puck to me.

And without thinking, I take the shot.

Instinct and drills, along with countless hours of practice, has created muscle memory that I can rely on without a thought. So when the puck sails under the goalie’s knee a second before he drops it, and the light behind the goal flashes red to signal a goal, I’m not reallysurprised.

But I do let it be a momentary balm to my anger.

I raise my hands and am immediately swarmed by my teammates. The celebration feels distant. I’m happy, but not really. I just want to bash in the goalie’s face or the guy who keeps getting in my space.

Evan pats my helmet. “Way to channel.”

I roll my eyes.

The game restarts, and I’m hot. My blood is singing. The other team gets the puck and heads toward our goal. I target the player who has possession and slam him into the boards. The hit is fucking jarring, the plastic mouthguard saving my teeth from clacking.

“What the fuck is your problem, Foster?”

The D-man grabs the back of my jersey, keeping me from chasing after the puck. It’s long gone anyway. It slung around behind the goal. Taylor takes it up away from danger, away from Archer in the crease.

I whip around and shove the asshole off me. “My only problem is you, dickhead.”

He pushes me back. A sharp jab of his hands and stick across my chest. I rock back on my skates. He wants a fight? Me, too. I ditch my stick, my gloves, and he mirrors me. We circle each other, and I sneer at him.

“Fucking coward,” I call. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

He lunges at me. We grapple, and I distantly hear another whistle being blown. The roar of the crowd blends with the blood rushing in my ears. He knocks my helmet off, and I do the same to him. I drag him closer and hit him square in the mouth.

His head snaps back, eyes going wide with anger.

When he hits back, it’s like a fucking hammer across my cheekbone. I let the momentum shift my weight, and I use him to keep me upright. We trade shots like that until blood fills my mouth. I think it’s coming from my nose. Either way, he tires before I do, and with one heavy twist, I slam him down on the ice. I land on top of him, but hands immediately grab for me, pulling me up and away. I spit blood and run my hand under my nose.

“Penalty box,” the ref yells in my ears. “Now.”

My nose smarts, and my eyes water. I glance back at the other guy, smirking as he climbs back to his feet. He scowls in my direction.

Distantly, the crowd’s approval seeps in. I’m escorted into the penalty box and sit heavily, only registering the fans clapping and cheering around me once the official closes us in.

My teammates return my items. Stick, helmet, gloves. I fist-bump Evan, who hides his smile with a quick shake of his head. My old coach used to say, “If you’re going to fight, don’t embarrass me by losing one-on-one.” I’d like to think I made him proud.

I look across the announcers’ booth to the other penalty box, where the other guy sits. His hands are running through his hair, and he seems a little stressed out, to be honest.

“First fight, Mary?” I yell over to him. “You hit like a virgin.”

He ignores me.

I lean back in my seat and smile.

Who knew a fight would take the edge off?