Stick Your Landing (All In #3)

32. Zach

32

Zach

Finley promised she wouldn’t disappear, but since going home with her parents two weeks ago, I’ve barely heard from her.

The logical part of my brain tells me to stop messaging her, to let Finley come back to me when she’s ready, but I’m struggling to stay away, especially when she might need me.

Jennings snatches my phone. “If you’re debating it this long, it’s a bad idea.”

My head drops into my hands. “I don’t know what to do, man.”

“How’s this? We demolish those assholes, then get stupid drunk.”

He holds the phone out to me, but when I go to grab it, he pulls it away and lifts it above my head. I can’t reach it from where I sit by my locker, not when Jennings stands with my phone at his eye level. And I don’t want to play along.

Shit . This isn’t the attitude I need heading into a game with Justin Ward—the asshole who flattened my head on the ice and ruined the beginning of my season.

“Do you have smelling salts?” I ask.

Jennings claps me on the back. “Now there’s the Briggsy I know and love.” He leaves the locker room to retrieve them, coming back with the foul-smelling tube of salt that never fails to wake me the fuck up.

I put it to my nose, take a whiff, and let a “Let’s go!” fly out of my mouth. Answering shouts chorus around the room from my teammates. They’ve been giving me little nods all day, the kind they used to give Volk in the hours before we played Justin Ward. The games against our biggest division rival ratchet the intensity, but I suspect today might lift us to an entirely new level.

Volk taps his stick against mine as we line up on the ice for the national anthem. “You ready for this?”

I glance across the rink. Justin fucking Ward stares at me with an insufferable shit-eating grin. I don’t care that he runs a charity for underprivileged youth, he’s still the biggest piece of shit in the league. The biggest piece of shit I’ve ever come across, period.

“Fuck yeah, I am,” I reply, glaring right back at Ward, tipping my lips in a half smile. That injury shook me to my core, but I’ll be damned if I give this asshole the satisfaction of letting it show.

The first half of the first period goes by without a whiff of indecency, but like every other game, the crowd anxiously waits for the inevitable spark to set our hatred aflame. All our games sell out these days, ever since we became a staple in the playoffs, so the crowd roar isn’t unique.

The undercurrent of anxiety though? It’s not standard.

The game’s physical, like every game against this team. There are scrums in front of the net, some punishing—but legal—hits and trash talk exchanged.

But it isn’t until the end of the first period that they cross a line.

I’m behind the net retrieving the puck in our O-zone, and I push it out to Volk halfway between me and the blue line. Seconds later, a body slams me into the boards. There’s an immediate whistle because the dumbass chose to violate the rules with a ref less than ten feet away. Ward’s goon-in-training, Prentiss, throws his arms up to complain about the “bullshit” call.

Ward has his teammates doing his dirty work for him tonight. As the thought crosses my mind, I’m slammed again, with more force this time. My hands come up to stop my head from taking the brunt of the hit.

“How’s the head kid?” Ward shouts into my ear.

I don’t fight often, but I have a line, and this motherfucker crossed it.

I pop back up—this isn’t the first time I’ve been boarded, and it won’t be the last. They’ll have to knock me unconscious again to keep me down.

“Never better.” I throw my gloves onto the ice, and my blades ease me toward him. “Something you won’t be able to say after I beat your ass.”

Ward rears back and laughs. “You don’t want to fight me, Briggsy .”

“It’s Briggs to you,” I say, picking up speed to close the gap between us and shove him. The move catches Ward by surprise, so he loses his balance a little, an annoyance more than a disadvantage.

“All right,” Ward shouts, removing his gloves one at a time. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Well, fuck,” someone mutters fifteen seconds before Niko Halonen decks Ward across the face.

The rink descends into chaos.

Ward charges Halo while Prentiss, who had skated toward the box, comes charging back at me. Everyone is swinging at someone, and the benches empty, every player joining this shit show.

It’s a long time before the refs manage to separate us, frantically blowing their whistles, skating from fight to fight. Matt helps them break up fights while their dirty-ass captain—Ward—gets whaled on by Niko. By the time the refs sort out the penalties, Volk, Halo, and I all end up in the box together, while Ward, Prentiss, and another goon—whose only contribution is hurting the opposing team—crowd their sin bin.

“Aw, do you have someone else fight all your battles?” Ward taunts.

“At least people pay to watch me! Didn’t these people used to cheer for you? Well, not these people exactly, because you couldn’t win a fucking game before Volk and I got here. Listen to them now.”

I’m talking too much, and it’s unlikely Ward can hear me over the roar of the crowd shouting “Cheaters never win” at him. There’s too much adrenaline firing through my veins. I’m hopping up and down on my skates, anxious to charge back onto the ice.

Volk’s hand lands on my forearm and tugs me onto the bench. “What have I told you about fighting out of your weight class?”

“Don’t start,” I mutter, my skates tapping the ground. I don’t think I could stop them if I tried.

“I fucking hate that guy,” Halo groans.

“Fucking tell me about it.” Volk damn near growls the words.

“He’s the worst,” I agree.

This might be the first time the three of us have all agreed with each other. That’s the power of Justin Ward, bonding people over a shared hatred of him.

“How did Kennedy ever date that clown? Someone as fine as her settling for that .”

I wince, glancing at Volk, expecting to see murder in his eyes, returning us to where we started, with Volk and Halo barely tolerating each other. But Volk grins at Halo like they’re friends sharing a joke.

“She was going through something.”

“That explains a lot. Glad she found someone better.”

Volk nods curtly.

My appreciation for the temporary truce between Volk and Halo vanishes when Halo adds, “It wasn’t smart picking a fight with him, Briggsy. That asshole has fifty pounds on you.”

“You couldn’t let me get in one punch?” I lament.

Halo rubs a towel over his sweat-soaked face. “Your punch would have landed you a second concussion this season.”

“Is that why you finally have my back? A deep caring for my health?” I twinkle my eyes at him, a gesture he ignores.

“I have your back because you’re my teammate, and if anyone fucks with you, they fuck with me. And I needed someone to dirty up this face. Can’t let Volk walk around with all the bruises and get all the attention.”

“He’s not your competition,” I say.

“It’s cute you think that,” Halo replies. “Everyone is competition.”

I motion between Volk and me. “We’re not. We’re your allies.”

Halo smirks. “Briggsy the Boy Scout, eh?” He mimics my voice, right down to my Manitoban accent. “ Anyway, what’s that thing our fans keep saying, protect you at all costs?”

I gesture around the arena with one hand. “They might start saying it about you now.”

The crowd chants Ha-Lo over and over as the screen at center ice replays the fight, showing Halo punching Ward senseless while he shields his head.

Halo scoffs. “I don’t need anyone to protect me.”

“No, of course not.” Volk rolls his eyes, but there’s laughter in his tone.

I nudge Volk in the side. To Halo, I say, “Maybe you want someone to have your back, back your play, whatever?”

He shrugs. “My next play is to wipe the floor with these fuckers. You in?”

I hold up my hand to fist-bump him, then turn to Volk.

He rolls his eyes again, like he can’t possibly be bothered by this ritual. “You always take it too far, Briggsy.”

I crack a smile. “Face it—that’s what you love about me.”

“I respect it,” Halo chimes in. “Sometimes, the situation calls for taking it too far.”

“Like right now,” I reply with a nod.

When the penalties expire, we charge out of the box, one by one, like bats out of hell. Halo lands a monster hit, which allows Volk to steal the puck and head toward the net. I sprint up the ice, waiting for him to cross the blue line before charging, looking for his pass. Volk fakes out the goalie, making him think he’s shooting left, but instead, he slaps the puck to me to score on the open net opportunity we created. I immediately point to Volk but find Halo with both of his arms in the air, celebrating as if it’d been his goal. They skate to me, wrapping me in a hug so wholesome, it’d wreck Gemma’s heart. Besides her husband, hockey hugs draw her to our sport.

By the time the third-period buzzer sounds, we’ve outscored Florida by five goals, three of which came from our line. Kennedy thought inviting Halo to Christmas dinner would create team bonds, but all we needed was for Justin fucking Ward to come to town to align us against a common enemy.