Chapter One
BASH
Blood splatters across the Plexiglass from Miller’s split lip, and I shove his face against it, keeping him pressed to the boards. It’s not my fault the fucker lost his helmet and opened himself up to an ass-kicking he deserves.
The crowd roars, the sound reverberating through the arena at an almost deafening level.
He twists and shoves back his body, trying to buck me off him. I swing, and my fist connects with the side of his head. He roars, pushes off the boards, and manages to get enough space between us to free himself from my hold.
Anger flares in my blood as he skates toward me, tugging off his gloves. I pull mine and toss them aside. The second he’s close enough, my strike lands on his face. The crack of his nose breaking doesn't give me any pause. I swing again and hit his jaw this time. His head whips back, sending blood from his mouth and nose flying through the air and splattering across the ice.
He recovers a second later and responds with a shot to my jaw. Pain spreads over the side of my face.
Motherfucker!
I unleash on him.
Shot after shot.
Blow after blow.
I rain my aggression down on him until he’s on his back on the ice, and I’m straddling him, my bare hands covered in his blood.
Someone grabs me from behind and pulls on my shoulder. It’s nothing but a lame attempt to pull me off and away from him.
They shouldn’t bother.
It's futile.
When I'm in this mode, there's no stopping me. And this douchebag has been asking for it all game. It was only a matter of time before it was going to come to blows. Every chance he got, he was taking cheap shots on one of us, and the fucking refs seem to be blind to it tonight.
I pull my arm back for another blow, but a set of hands grabs my wrist and a forearm wraps around my neck and pulls me backward. The familiar black and silver of the team’s jersey are the only reason I don’t swing at them, too.
“Bash! Stop!” Larsson’s voice comes from directly behind me. He tightens his hold on my neck for emphasis. “It’s fucking over.”
Whoever was holding my arm releases it, and a ref skates between me and where Miller still lies on the ice, bloodied and whining like the fucking pussy he is.
He loves to dish it out but can’t take it without turning into a blubbering baby.
It’s part of the game, asshole. Grow the fuck up.
Larsson releases me, and I glance back at him. “The asshole fucking deserved it. He's been up my ass all game.”
It was time someone taught him a fucking lesson.
Miller climbs to his feet, pressing a hand over the gush of blood from his nose. His dark, hard eyes find mine, and he sneers at me and skates right past the useless ref toward me.
Ready for a second round, dickwad? BRING IT!
I skate toward him, but strong arms pull me back, and his teammates grab him before we can reach each other. We both struggle against the holds, but neither team is letting us go.
“Bash, man, chill.”
“Larsson,” I thrash but can’t manage to free myself, “let me go.”
He shakes his head. “It's not worth it, and you don't have any more free passes, dude.”
The words chill the anger burning through my blood.
Shit. He’s right.
I look over to the bench and into the stone-cold eyes of Coach Spencer.
Fuck.
I've been skating on thin ice with him and the GM all season. Every penalty is another mark against me, and every suspension might as well be another step out the fucking door.
They warned me they weren’t going to put up with much more. That they couldn't risk having me on the team going into the second half of the season when we’re so close to making it to the playoffs. They said my attitude and the useless penalties were a hindrance to the team, and no matter how well I played, I couldn’t make up for it.
Five damn years busting my ass for this team, helping them make it to the top of the Central Division every single damn season, All-Star Team five times, voted fan favorite three times, and this is how they repay me. By making threats to trade me if I don’t fall in line like a good little boy.
It was so condescending and insulting. I should have told them to go fuck themselves and asked to be traded, but Chicago has become my home. These guys are my friends, my family. I don’t want to get shipped off to some shit team somewhere, so I promised I'd be “good.”
I swore up and down I’d reel myself in.
It was a fucking lie.
And they knew it.
Bash Fury doesn't have an off switch. Even now, my hands clench and unclench at my sides, ready for more. But it’s over. In more ways than one. No way I’ll be staying on the Warhawks with what just happened. This is exactly the excuse they need to get rid of me.
The ref skates over to make the announcement. “Number 71. Five-minute penalty for fighting and a game misconduct.”
Motherfucker.
I glare at Miller as I skate off the ice. I don't bother looking at anyone in the stands or at our bench again.
It's pointless.
They hired me to play the game, and I'm fucking playing. Just because I don't do it like the rest of these pussies doesn't mean I should be repeatedly punished for it.
Fucking bullshit.
I already know where this is heading. And it isn't anywhere good.
What team is gonna pick up my contract on trade after this? Probably one with no chance of ever making it anywhere in the playoffs.
My chance at the Stanley Cup just went down the drain along with my career.
I storm down the hallway to the locker room. Every muscle in my body vibrates with the adrenaline from the fight and the rage of knowing the consequences of what I just did.
“This is such fucking bullshit.” I tear off my helmet and chuck it across the locker room. It slams against the wall and ricochets back.
This is fucking hockey, not touch football. Violence is part of the game.
What the fuck is going on with these snowflakes?
The wrath building inside me has reached a boiling point. What just went down on the ice was only the tip of the iceberg. I march over to my next target—the water cooler. I grab it and toss it across the room. It smashes into one of the lockers and explodes, water drenching my teammates’ personal items and soaking the floor.
“What the hell is going…?” Louie, our equipment manager, freezes in the doorway and takes in my handiwork. “Shit.”
“Get the fuck out of here.” My screamed order echoes through the space, reverberating in my ears.
He nods and backs away slowly. The man knows better than to get in my way when I'm like this. It isn’t the first time he’s seen it, but there’s no doubt it will be the last.
I flip one of the benches and then drop down onto the one across from it and lower my face into my trembling hands.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
This is it. The end of my career.
What team is going to take me now?
GREER
“No. Absolutely not.” I try to keep the anger out of my words as much as possible, but I fail miserably. Each syllable vibrates with incredulous disdain and borders on wildly inappropriate considering who I’m sitting across from.
I shouldn’t have snapped, but it’s just…I can’t wrap my head around what he just told me.