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Beckett Croft angled to stop just inches from the referee, spraying ice over the prick’s skates. This guy had been favoring the Anaheim Ducks since the first puck drop.
Leaning in, Beckett pinned the ref with all the frustration that had built up over the first two periods of the game.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Beckett kept his voice down, but it took more control than he thought he had left. This guy had been favoring the Anaheim Ducks all goddamned game. “Donovan wasn’t even close. Decker faked that trip. You ought to at least call him on embellishment.”
As the Washington Rough Riders’ captain, Beckett was the only player who could talk to—or in this case, challenge—the ref’s calls. Normally, he handled his job with stoic intensity. Setting an example for his teammates was an important part of the position, one he took seriously. But so was calling bullshit.
“Don’t tell me how to do my job.” The ref grabbed the puck from another member of his four-man team. Before he skated away, he warned, “If you want to stay on the ice, Croft, lose the attitude.”
“Fucking A.” He blinked sweat from his eyes as he skated into the face-off formation. “This is bullshit.”
Tate Donovan, one of their highest scorers, glided past on his way toward the penalty box with “Even it up, Beck.”
“You know it.”
Beckett had two major jobs on the ice—protection and punishment. He was one of the team’s two designated enforcers. And Donovan was right, this was a good time to even up the score—if not on the board, where they were already tied with the Ducks two-two—certainly on the ice, where the ref had fallen short.
There was more than one way to seek justice.
With twelve minutes left of the second period, Fall Out Boy blasted over the arena’s speakers, background to the announcer’s voice hyping the Rough Riders’ lineup. And while the fifteen thousand fans filling their home stadium in downtown Washington, DC cheered with steadfast belief in their team, Beckett’s chest tightened with each second that ticked past.
His team was approaching the middle of their season and the acclaimed Winter Classic. They needed this win to advance into the finals. Beckett himself was approaching the end of his contract with his team, and he needed this win just as badly to secure his personal and professional goals.
The puck dropped. Savage chipped it to Hendrix. Hendrix smacked it to Saber. Saber swept toward the Ducks’ goal and passed to Beckett.
Decker appeared on Beckett’s flank, blocking the goal. And goddammit, he was fucking sick of this guy. He faked left, drove right, and flew behind the net, passing to Savage.
Savage took the shot. The smack of the puck echoed off the ice. A sound that pumped adrenaline through Beckett’s blood.
The Ducks’ goalie, a fresh young hotshot from Canada, blocked the puck, and Saber grabbed the rebound while Beckett bullied the Ducks’ defenseman out of his teammate’s path. He pushed toward the opposite end of the rink in time to witness Hendrix out-skate one Duck, out-stick another, and swing toward the goal.
Energy buzzed like live wires between the players. Everyone’s focus was honed and intense. Cheering in the stands had faded into white noise. All Beckett heard was the rasp of his breath and the beat of his heart or the occasional call from a teammate.
In split-second intervals, Beckett saw Hendrix set up, take stock of those around him, pull his stick back—
Decker’s angle of approach shifted, and the Duck drove toward Hendrix. Beckett pushed every ounce of power he owned into his thighs, driving his skates forward. But he didn’t reach the men before Decker slammed Hendrix against the boards so hard, the Rough Rider came off his feet, banged his head on the glass, and broke his hockey stick.
Yet the refs remained silent. No roughing call.
Before Hendrix had even gotten back on his skates, Decker was driving the puck toward the Rough Riders’ goal.
This was fucked. It was also over. Beckett was done watching the other team pummel his teammates without consequences.
Fury put speed into Beckett’s skates. Donovan blasted out of the penalty box and immediately crowded Decker toward the wall. Beckett angled toward the bastard, lowered his shoulder, and threw all two hundred pounds of himself—along with a decent amount of momentum—into the Duck.
The clatter of equipment filled Beckett’s ears a split second before Decker hit the boards. Then the thunder of the Plexiglas rumbled through his ears and rattled his brain, followed by ravenous spectator approval.