Breakaway

Chapter 18 - Breakaway

DANA

The Winnipeg Jets were up two to nothing, and it was only about halfway through the first period. There weren't many ways the beginning of the game could have been worse, at least from the Storm's perspective. They'd had defensive miscues right and left, hadn't been able to put out any kind of sustained offensive attack, and just generally looked like they were still warming up instead of playing the actual game.

At the moment, Eric was out on the ice with Brenden and David Weber as his wings. Babs would normally be playing with Eric and Brenden, at least lately, but he'd taken a high stick from Evander Kane a couple of minutes ago. He'd had to go back to the trainer's room to be stitched up. The refs completely missed it even with the blood coming from Babs's lip, so the Storm hadn't gotten a power play out of it like they should have.

Webs stole the puck from the Jets with a poke check at the blue line. Eric and Brenden started streaking up the ice immediately, and Webs got a pass through to Brenden's waiting stick. They'd caught the Jets defense pinching and had a three-on-one going. Brenden faked a shot and passed it to Eric, who was barreling straight down the center of the ice with his stick up for a one-timer. The one Jets defender flattened himself on the ice to block it, but he was in better position to prevent another pass than to block a shot.

Eric shanked the shot. The puck trickled in on net. The goaltender snatched it up easily in his glove and held on for the whistle.

The light over the penalty box came on, signaling a TV time-out. While Eric and the guys skated over to the bench, I leaned back in my seat.

"That was the best look he's had in a while," Laura said.

I shook my head. Not that I disagreed with her. "He's squeezing his stick. He's putting too much pressure on himself. It's all in his head." I just wished I could somehow help Eric ease his frustrations.

Even as I said it, Mattias Bergstrom was saying something over Eric's shoulder from behind him on the bench. Within seconds, Eric was on his feet and had spun around, getting right up in Bergy's face. They were yelling at each other, screaming. I was sure that the fans in the lowest ten rows or so of the arena had to be hearing every profanity-laced word from both their mouths.

Scotty just let them go at each other. He didn't do anything to intervene. After a minute, the other assistant coach tried to put himself between them, putting his hands on Bergy's chest and pushing him back away from Eric.

That didn't stop Eric. It didn't come close to calming him down. He just stepped over the bench and followed them. If someone didn't hold him back, he was going to hit Bergy. I could feel it all the way from the owner's box.

The ice crew was almost finished cleaning the surface during the TV time-out. They'd be back on the air any second, and then the whole world would see Eric losing it. Sure enough, the light over the penalty box went off, and Eric and Bergy were still going at each other with Hammer trying to separate them.

The puck dropped, and the game was underway again, but those three were oblivious to the action on the ice. I had no doubt that at least one of the TV cameras, and probably more, were focused on the fight behind the bench. It would be all over the hockey news tonight—maybe for a week or longer, depending on the outcome of the fight.

I wished I could be down there. To help calm him. To talk some sense into him. I had no idea what Bergy had said to him, but I had no doubt it was meant to help, not to hurt. Out of all the coaches on this team, Bergy really got Eric, understood what made him tick. Eric wouldn't necessarily agree with that, but it was more because Bergy tended to push all his buttons. I figured it came from all the years they'd played against each other.