Falling Forward ✔

Chapter Thirty-Two - Bastien

The Nailers d-men slams me hard into the boards, wrenching control of the puck from my stick. Thankfully, Russo is there to deke it away from him. He swings it wide, passes to Haart. I lose track of it from there.

The d-man starts to skate away. Normally I'd call it good, get him back when the ref isn't watching. Tonight, I'm not ready to let anyone just brush off without a scape.

I shove him hard in the back. "The hell?"

"Legal check." He sneers. "Suck it up, you limp-dicked fuck. If you had any balls, you would have gone after that girl that dumped you."

That does it.

I don't even care about the puck anymore. I wrench him back by his jersey. The d-man barely has time to gain balance on his skates before I yank his number over his shoulder pads, lock his arms and start jabbing blow after blow to the back of his skull.

Whistles blow, but I don't care. Nailers and Cyclones players circle us, ready to jump in if the fight escalates. The crowd roars, people in the front row pounding the glass, egging us on.

A ref finally manages to get between me and the defenseman, shove me off. Haart grips my arm, skates me back from the brawl while the ref leads the Nailers player aside. His teammates helps him right his clothing. I'm a little happy to see him sway on his skates as he heads to the box. He'll be out for a while.

Spencer just growls at me. "The fuck is your problem?"

I shove his glove off. "The fuck is your problem?!"

His dense brows and dark eyes grow concerned. He knows why I'm fighting, lashing out. He's also smart enough to keep his mouth shut about it.

I hate it.

The ref ushers me to the sin bin. I chew on my mouth guard and seethe, barely aware of my team turtling up for the powerplay.

All I can see, all I can feel is Reece. Every hour has been the same since she left, some horrible version of Groundhog Day. Gut-wrenching pain when I wake, grit through morning skates and workouts. I don't feel like I can get a full breath of air in. The few moments I can, it just fuels the intense agony of her departure.

When we started this whole thing, I promised I'd take her pain away. Turns out I did nothing but compound it. Rip apart wounds that were only beginning to heal. That kills me more than anything.

Johnson makes a spectacular save, bellyflopping on and then snapping the puck out of the crease to Bower. The d-man loses it and our goalie has to all but backflip back into the net. He catches the puck on his stick, sends it screaming over the posts as well as the protective netting surrounding the rink. Fans shriek in raucous approval as the disc slams onto the cement of the stands. One of them holds it up victoriously, grin made huge on the jumbotron.

It's an end to the play. Action stops and players reset. Five minutes remain in the third period, thirty seconds on my penalty clock. Cyclones manage a lead of 2-1, but it's been hard fought.

Just like I know Reece fought hard for independence that night. Whatever shackles held her shattered. She was fierce and radiant, facing Asher, facing me. I've never been so proud and so heartbroken.

I slam my stick into the Plexi even as I brace against the pain. She said goodbye. It's over. My conscious states. No it's not. My soul responds.

They've been at war ever since that night, each stabbing me with relentless urges. Part of me wants to go to her, talk to her, hold her again. Except I know I've lost that right.

The city has lost its luster, the game its adrenaline high. Everything here holds her essence. Every time I see a flicker of blonde hair in the audience, I pray she's back to forgive me. Every scent I get of eucalyptus and mint, I turn and search the crowd.