“Break it up. Break it up,” he yells to the men, giving his back to Coen and giving McNabb a slight push. McNabb easily complies, until Coen yells, “You’re a pussy, McNabb. Afraid to fight me. Everyone in this arena knows what a pussy you are.”
Wrong words to say, and McNabb leaps toward Coen. “You’re a washed-up has-been, Highsmith. Not even relevant to the game anymore.”
The other ref gets in there with Sneed to try to push them apart. I hover close to Coen, but for now, he’s not pulling too hard on Kirill and Stone.
“How about we just meet outside after,” Coen snarls, “when I don’t have anyone holding me back.”
“How about you go hop on a plane that’s about to crash?” McNabb yells back.
It happens all at once. Kirill and Stone release Coen, which is the same thing I would’ve done, because that comment cannot be forgiven or ignored. The Cardinals on the ice know it, too, and they rush in to protect their teammate.
While none of us seem inclined to stop Coen now, Sneed spins toward him because he knows those words were designed to throw fuel on the fire. He puts his hands on Coen’s chest and tries to push him backward—to put space between the men. I watch as a silent bystander, not willing to stop Coen if he wants to go after McNabb again.
While Coen’s eyes blaze with fury and a thirst to wrap his hands around McNabb’s neck, he lets his gaze drop to where Sneed has his hand on his chest. Sneed’s not paying attention, feeling like he’s got the situation under control, looking over his shoulder at McNabb and yelling at him to leave the ice.
It happens so fast, no one could’ve prevented it. Had I known it would happen, I would’ve done my damnedest to try.
Coen cocks his arm and brings his elbow straight across the ref’s head, and Sneed flies backward into McNabb. Some of the Cardinal players catch him before he falls, steadying him until he gets his skates back under him, but Coen is already leaping forward.
His rage is now focused on Sneed—for touching him or for forbidding him to fight McNabb, only he knows—and he tries to try grab the ref. Coen’s already got his arm cocked, ready to aim a punch, and that’s when we all jump into action. I race forward, put myself before him while Kirill, Stone, and Nolan grab him from behind. Even with the four of us on him, he fights like a wild man, screaming obscenities at the referee.
Luckily, the elbow Coen threw at the ref didn’t knock him down, and Sneed blows his whistle furiously, motioning a game misconduct penalty. Given that there’s just a little over ten seconds left in this disaster of a game, not that big a deal.
But Coen will pay a stiff price for this.
Possibly his career.
We manhandle Coen to the gate that leads to our locker room, forcing him through. I can’t leave the ice, so no telling what he’ll do. I’d escort him all the way back, but I’m stuck out here.
Luckily, Coen stomps down the hall amidst a hail of booing fans throwing drinks and food at him. He doesn’t even seem to notice, and when he’s out of sight, I release a huge sigh.
Coen might be finished in this league for good. Certainly he’ll be fined, probably suspended for the rest of the year. Perhaps some consideration might be given to the fact that McNabb taunted Coen about the plane crash, which was beyond underhanded. It’s why I didn’t care if he went back after him.
Something similar happened to Tacker Hall last year on the Arizona Vengeance. He got taunted on the ice about his fiancée dying in a plane crash—a plane he was flying—and he went berserk, taking the guy down and kneeing him to unconsciousness. He was suspended for several games. But this is worse because he attacked a ref.
I skate back to the face-off circle, not caring one way or the other where the puck goes. My opponent beats me to the draw. It kicks out to a Cardinal who takes off down ice. Luckily, Kirill and Nolan still have their legs and manage to tie up the puck until the clock runs out.
Our team leaves the bench, crosses the ice, and exits through the same passageway that Coen took seconds ago. There are boos, but thankfully no one throws anything at our team. I’m assuming that might still be a little respect for the loss our team suffered this year, but mostly because they’re really only angry at Coen.
We file into the locker room where it’s deathly quiet. Coen is working on his gear, tearing it off in angry, jerking movements.
Everyone steers clear of him.
I move to my locker, grabbing my phone first and foremost. I know there will be a text from Jenna.
And sure enough… there is. I hope everything’s okay. That looked like a really bad situation.
I’ve started a quick reply just as Keller’s voice booms through the door. He’s livid, face beet red, fists clenched. “Where the fuck is Highsmith?” he yells.
The other coaches walk in behind him, looking wary. Baden’s expression is as grim as I’ve ever seen it.
All the players freeze and watch Keller as he spies Coen and advances on him. Coen doesn’t even bother to look over his shoulder at the coach. He continues to take off his top gear, as if he has no cares in the world.
I tense, expecting Coen to go crazy if Keller touches him, and while no coach should ever dare put their hands on a player, I don’t think Keller has great self-control.
Luckily, he stops a few feet from Coen and thunders, “Look at me, goddamn it, when I’m talking.”
Coen lifts his head, turns slowly to face Keller, and stares at him with a blank expression.
And then the tirade starts. “You stupid motherfucker,” Keller snarls, spittle flying from his mouth as he points at Coen but keeps space between them. He probably knows that touching Coen means he’ll get his ass kicked. “Who the fuck do you think you are, you entitled, pansy-assed, overhyped prima donna, that you think you can go out on that ice and do whatever the hell you want? When you’re on that ice, you’re my bitch, and you’re representing me, and—”
“The Titans,” Coen says in a flat voice.
“Excuse me?” Keller sputters.
“You mean, I represent the Titans,” he replies calmly. “You said I’m your bitch and I represent you. That’s not true.”
“You know what the fuck I meant, you moron.” With every abusive word Keller throws on Coen, I grow edgier, waiting for all hell to break loose. “I don’t know what your dysfunction is, nor do I give a rat’s ass about it. I just know that you’ve broken the straw on the camel’s back.”
“You mean, I’m the straw that broke the camel’s back,” Coen says, again so even-keeled, he seems almost robotic.
“That’s it!” Keller screams almost shrilly, his entire body shaking. “You’re out of here. Off this team. Suspended indefinitely. In fact, I’d prefer if you never came back.”
Coen cocks an eyebrow at him. “Are you done?”
I swear it might be my imagination, but steam comes out of Keller’s ears. Luckily, Baden steps forward. Placing his hand on Keller’s shoulder, he says, “Matt… we should have a coaches’ meeting. I’m sure Callum will be down soon.”
Callum would have been up in the visiting owner’s box, and I can’t imagine what he’s thinking right now.
Keller doesn’t move… just stands there breathing heavily, engaged in a stare down with Coen.