Chapter 70: CHAPTER 70

Jax’s POV

The electronic buzzer of the score clock didn’t just ring; it let out a wet, rattling buzz-shriek that vibrated through the rusted iron roof trusses and down into the very marrow of my shins.

Under my boots, the ice of the Red River Arena felt thin, greasy, and completely unbothered by the three thousand people screaming over the corrugated iron barriers. The air was a freezing soup of ammonia, wet wool, and the sour diesel reek of the Zamboni that was still idling behind the plywood gatehouse. I could feel the cold coming straight through the split leather of my left sole, a sharp, damp ache that made my toes crawl inside my skate socks but I didn't shift my weight. I kept my big knees bent, my boots planted three feet apart on the red center circle, my weight settled into my hips until my breezers were flush with the gold gold-stitching of my jersey.

Julian was standing three inches to my left.

He didn't have his helmet on yet. He was holding the blue plastic shell under his arm, his long fingers looking white and bloodless against the visor, his head tilted slightly toward the rafters as if he were trying to find a single, clean line of light through the yellow sulfur fog of the halogen lamps. The four small, dark holes in his jersey where the captain's "C" had been unpinned looked like gray ash marks against his chest, the white backing material showing through the knit like salt in a seam. He was breathing through his nose, short, dry hitches that didn't expand his ribs by more than a fraction of an inch before the white zinc tape beneath his flannel shirt caught the bone and pulled it back into the slot.

"Line up!" the linesman growled.

He was a short, thick man from the county docks with a red, weather-beaten neck and a silver whistle that was already wet with his own spit. He didn't look at Julian's face, and he didn't look at the split welt of my runner. He just dropped his heavy, black-gloved hand into the leather puck bag, his fingers letting out a dry shuck-clink as he pulled the first cold disc of vulcanized rubber out into the light.

The crowd didn't wait for his hand to drop.

The moment the announcer's microphone let out a high, metallic hiss over the rafters, the noise came down from the timber bleachers like a load of wet gravel sliding off a truck bed. It wasn't the regular hockey noise, it wasn't the cheering or the rhythmic clapping of the local rinks. It was a low, toxic, and suffocating roar that seemed to bounce off the concrete foundations of the west wing, the words "Thorne" and "disgrace" and "contract" mixing with the high, frantic whistles of the State College boosters in box four.

"Thorne! Where's your daddy's lawyer, Julian?"

"Hey, Thorne! Did you sign the waiver with a stolen pen?"

"Get him off the sheet!"

I looked across the circle. The State College center was a boy named Geller, a six-foot-one, two-hundred-and-five-pounder from the Saginaw casting shops who had a jaw like an iron block and three years of regional penalties on his registry. He didn't have his stick on the ice. He was holding the shaft of his Sherwood across his knees, his red-furred fingers tapping the wood in a slow, rhythmic clack-clack-clack that matched the pulse behind my own ears.

"You look thin, Thorne," Geller said. His voice didn't have any volume to it, just a flat, locker-room drawl that carried the smell of the tobacco he’d been chewing behind the gatehouse. "The Detroit papers said your father liquidated the medical coverage. You got enough tape under there to keep the air in?"

Julian didn't look at him. He didn't blink. He kept his blue eyes fixed entirely on the black circle between Geller’s boots, his chin lifted into that flat, stubborn line that didn't ask for a favor from anyone in the arena. His travel shirt under the jersey was already soaked through the collar, the cold sweat running down his neck in small, gray lines that disappeared into the blue wool.

"Drop the puck," Julian whispered.

The first ten minutes of the period were nothing but a systematic, dirty hunt.

State College didn't play the neutral-zone trap; they didn't even try to set up the coverage when we cleared our blue line. Every time the puck skittered across the gray, brittle sheet toward Julian’s lane, their defensemen, two big, slow boys from the county scrap lines who had "STATE" stenciled in greasy gold letters across their shoulders, closed the gap with their sticks up, their heavy wooden shafts held level with Julian’s left shoulder.

They didn't look for the clean check. They waited for the referee to turn his head toward the back-check, and then they drove their weight forward, their forearms catching Julian right in the small of his back, their sticks delivering a series of short, hard, and uncalled cross-checks directly into the white zinc tape on his ribs.

Crack-thud.

Every time the wood hit the blue polyester of his jersey, Julian’s body gave a violent, involuntary hitch, his left skate runner letting out a long, screeching shriek-shatter as his weight shifted to his heel to keep from hitting the boards. He didn't yell. He didn't look at the linesman. He just curled his shoulder four inches down toward his hip, his face going a flat, mottled white around the temple as his lungs fought for the air that was being pinned flat against his spine.

I watched him from the red line.

The heat inside my chest was no longer the warm, adrenaline-fueled rush of a tournament game; it had gone entirely cold, a heavy, gray iron pressure that felt like the diesel exhaust from the Zamboni bay had settled right into my lungs. My big knuckles were throbbing under my leather gloves, the skin over my split middle joint still sticky with the brown, dried crust of Liam's blood from yesterday's training room floor.

"Jules," I growled as we cleared the crease after a whistle. "Get on the bench. Harrington's dressed. Let him take the rotation."

Julian didn't turn his head. He was leaning his hip against the green-painted boards, his left hand holding onto the top of the timber to keep his knees from buckling, his breath coming in short, rattling gasps that sounded like a dry valve clicking in an empty pipe.

"The registry... the scouts are looking at the lane, Jaxom," he whispered, his voice so thin I could barely hear it over the roar of the crowd. "If I go to the bench... the association pulls the entry. We have... we have to keep the center filled."

"You're running on nothing but tape, Julian," I said, my large glove catching his sleeve, my shoulder pad locking against his to block him from the view of the Detroit box in the rafters. "They’re targeting the three-line. They know about the floaters."

"Then let them target it," he whispered, his blue eyes brilliant and entirely empty of anything but that cold, stubborn steel. "Just... don't let them have the crease."

The cold fury didn't start with a shout; it started with a single, slow breath that smelled of the salt and the gray mud from the parking lot.

I didn't look for the puck anymore. The black rubber disc could have been at the bottom of the Red River for all I cared. I dropped my stick half an inch lower, my large, grease-darkened fingers locking over the grip until the ash shaft let out a short, dry click against the ice, my eyes tracking the gold jerseys through the yellow sulfur fog of the halogen lamps.

The first one was Geller.

He was clearing the blue line on a three-man rotation, his head down as he gathered a lead pass from the gold defenseman, his shoulder turning to check his gap before he hit the center circle. He thought he was safe because the linesman was still trailing the play by thirty feet.

He didn't see me coming.

I didn't drop my shoulder, and I didn't lift my elbows. I kept my check perfectly legal, my boots gathering momentum through the neutral zone until the split sole of my left runner was screaming against the gray sheet, my entire two-hundred-and-ten-pound frame turning into a solid, unyielding wall of canvas and bone.

I hit him right in the turn.

The sound was a massive, sickening CRACK-WHUMP that echoed off the corrugated iron roof like a boiler pipe popping under pressure. The impact didn't just knock Geller off his feet; it lifted his entire body three inches off the ice, his Sherwood stick flying into the air and spinning twice through the yellow light before it struck the plywood gatehouse with a sharp, hollow clatter. His helmet flew off his brow, his face hitting the gray sheet with a wet, heavy thump that left a long, red smear of blood and slush trailing behind his nose as he slid ten feet into the boards.

"Clean!" Coach Clain roared from the bench. She didn't look at Geller. She looked at the linesman, her short, gray hair plastered flat against her forehead as she pointed her finger at the center circle. "The check was on the shoulder! Keep the clock running!"

I didn't wait for Geller to get up. I turned on my heels, my blades letting out a loud, violent crunch-shshsh as I drove my weight back toward the gold defenseman, the big one who had delivered the last cross-check to Julian's ribs.

He saw me this time.

He tried to drop his hip to catch the turn, his stick coming up to protect his collarbone, but I didn't check the speed. I hit him with the full, flat force of my chest protector, my broad shoulder driving straight through his gold jersey until his ribs let out a dry, rattling pop against my arm. He went straight back over his own skates, his head slamming against the timber boards with a loud, ringing BANG that made the iron hinges above the gatehouse vibrate for five long seconds.

The State College bench erupted.

Three of their gold-jerseyed wingers were screaming at the linesman, their sticks hitting the pine barriers in a chaotic, deafening thrack-thrack-thrack that was lost entirely under the sudden, stunned roar of the home crowd. They weren't looking at the "Disgraced Prince" anymore; they were looking at the massive, grease-stained navy jersey with number forty-four on the back, their eyes small and panicked under their wire cages as they realized the ice wasn't level anymore.

The second period had four minutes left on the clock when the line finally broke.

Julian was trailing the play by twenty feet, his skating slow and heavy, his left leg dragging slightly behind his heel as his thigh muscles began to give out from the constant, agonizing friction of the tape against his ribs. He had his stick held with one hand, his chin pressed flat against his collarbone, his blue eyes glazed over with that gray, unseeing fog of extreme physical exhaustion.

The gold winger, a freshman named Davis who had been talking to the Detroit papers all morning, came out of the neutral zone at a dead sprint.

He didn't have the puck. The black disc was already thirty yards down the sheet, cleared by Miller toward the gold goal mouth, but Davis didn't look at the play. He kept his eyes locked on Julian’s left side, his body hunched forward as he prepared to deliver a late, dirty check away from the play to finish the three-line for good.

I didn't think about the registry. I didn't think about the five-minute major or the Detroit scouts sitting in box four.

I flew across the center line, my skates cutting two deep, black grooves into the gray sheet as I dropped my Sherwood stick, the wooden shaft clattering uselessly against the ice. I didn't use my shoulder this time. I reached out with both of my large, bare hands, my grease-darkened fingers catching Davis by the gold wool of his shoulders before his boots could even clear the blue line.

I lifted him.

My big knuckles, split and bleeding, locked into his collar, and with a single, violent surge of my hips, I slammed his body flat against the hard gray sheet with an explosive CRACK-THUD that shook the entire goal frame behind us.

The room went completely dark with gold and blue jerseys.

It wasn't a hockey play; it was a full line brawl, the blue and gold track jackets spilling over the gatehouse barriers all at once, their blades chewing the ice into a chaotic, blinding cloud of silver dust. Harrington was there, his fists flying into Davis’s defensive line, his face red and roaring with that same raw, regional hatred that had been sitting in our locker room since the Vance filings. Miller had Geller by the throat, the two of them sliding through the slush toward the drain grate while Coach Clain’s silver whistle shrieked through the fog like an injured bird.

"Five minutes!" the referee was screaming, his hand pointing straight at my chest as he shoved his way through the gold jerseys. "Number forty-four, major penalty! Get him in the box!"

I didn't argue. I didn't look at the referee, and I didn't look at the gold bench.

I walked over to the small, plywood penalty box by the gatehouse, my split sole letting out that dry, complaining skrrr-click with every step. My chest was still heaving under the damp canvas of my jacket, but as I sat down on the narrow pine bench, the door closing behind me with a heavy, solid clack-shirr, I looked back through the wire mesh.

Julian was still standing.

He was leaning his hip against the goal frame, his helmet gone, his blonde hair plastered to his forehead with gray sweat, but his blue eyes were wide, clear, and looking straight back at me through the yellow sulfur light. His chin was still lifted into that flat, stubborn line, and the ice was finally clear.

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