𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐒 | bl thriller

𝑰 | ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ɢᴀᴍᴇ

The game was glorious. Of course, everybody noticed that there was something going on with the Lions. The Crusaders' plays, though? Genius. Charbonneau saw the tragedy unfold from the goal, a privileged view to the whole massacre. At first, it seemed like it would pass, the Lions were a good team. 

Blood. Sweat. Rage. After the 5th goal in a row on the Lions, with the bare minimum effort from the defense, there was no doubt. Everybody noticed something was wrong. The Genebra Lions' coach never asked for a time out, or a chat with the team. It was like every Lion was making a special effort to stay out of their way so the Crusaders could play.

Did it seem like foul play? Hell yes. It didn't mean, though, that the players had something to do with it. They worked together like a hive mind, a sincronized army blessed by Ares himself. When the other players looked at Charbonneau to check for how to proceed, he shrugged. Then, they decided to push the Lions to the edge, see what they would do.

Blades cut the ice. The crowd swallows screams. Crusaders make their way towards the opposite team. Snarled mouths and foul insults. It wasn't a game of college hockey anymore. It was the trenches. Charbonneau heard the Lions crowd scream their lungs out. Furious. Every time the Crusaders shoved the Lions against the plexiglass.

There was no doubt the public ravaged would ravaged them. The press? They would surround them like vultures waiting for the carcass. His blood pressure skyrocketed and the armor pressured wounds caused by close calls. Aching limbs and contused knees. But, above all, his anxiety wrestled with his ambition like gladiators.

The puck burned against the Lions' net when Jäger scored the 10th goal. They had to stop the game because a Genebra Lions fan threatened to invade the rink, and the fowards took the time to breathe as they panted, exhausted. At that point, the team wanted to call quits. It was evident: that wasn't being a fair game and it was hardly proper of them to keep doing it.

The Fribourg Crusaders were massacring the Genebra Lions. It was, by far one, of the bloodiest and brutal games of hockey anyone had ever seen in the last fifteen years at the college league. Not the kind of bloody and brutal that makes you want to stay, no. The kind of brutal that makes you want to throw up, because you just know there's something disturbing about it.

None of that sounded like Charbonneau's problem, so he just did what they always did: strive for victory. They would get out of the rink after the sound had buzzed, or his throat was slashed open by a skating blade. They were handing them the game, he hardly saw the puck the whole match.

The sound above him buzzed, warning the whole ice court that the game was over. They had won. No rejoicing screams from his teammates, most of their cheer was out anyway. They didn't even bother to stay the last fifteen minutes before the game ended. It would be the same thing, anyway.

The score was 15-0 to the Fribourg Crusaders, and the Genebra Lions were furious when the game ended. On the other side, the Crusaders also seemed to be furious.

When the fight broke, nobody knows who threw the first blow.

The Lions' center, Desjardins, pressed him against the plexiglass and punched him square in the jaw. Several times. None of the Crusaders seemed to make a move to help until he fell on the ice, staining the crisp crystalline court with red blood. They only managed to get out of his face because the judge stepped in. Nobody knew what to do with the situation.

— That's a fucking dirty move, even for you. — Desjardins spat, held back by his teammates like a wild animal with rabies.

— Do you suck your coach's dick with that mouth, Desjardins? — He deadpanned, in the same tone, as nothing was happening.