Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
My head swivels to Coen as Keller continues to rant, but no one is listening. “McNabb?”
He’s a defenseman for Detroit and has been playing a stellar game. He’s tied Coen up a lot, but all within the bounds of the rules and hasn’t drawn a penalty yet.
Coen sneers. “Yeah… I’m going to teach that fucker a lesson he won’t forget.”
“Coen,” I warn, but the red light goes off and the refs call everyone to the face-off circle.
As we gather around in our positions, myself in the center ready to take the puck, my eyes drift over to Coen. He’s not even watching us but rather has his eyes are lasered across the circle at McNabb.
Son of a bitch.
He’s going to make a move, and I can’t stop it.
The puck drops, and I dig deep to reach it before my opponent. In an effort to avert catastrophe in these last few seconds of the game, I hit it Coen’s way.
It’s not perfect, but he could’ve easily grabbed it.
Instead, he’s taking off after McNabb and the puck lands on a Cardinal’s stick instead.
“Shit,” I mutter, letting Kirill pick up the guy with the puck.
Everything seems to slow down as Coen careens toward his quarry. He gives him a hard push across his back, and McNabb whirls around.
Coen drops his gloves—the declaration he’s ready to fight.
McNabb has no choice. One doesn’t walk away from gloves on the ice, so his follow.
The two men clash, grabbing each other’s jerseys and trying to unpin an arm to throw a punch.
The refs whistle the play dead, keeping an eye on the combatants. With the clock stopped at eleven seconds, everyone watches.
It’s Coen who lands the first punch, able to free his right arm while holding the front of McNabb’s jersey. He cocks back and lets it fly, catching the other man on the side of his helmet.
McNabb snarls, jerks his own arm free, and lands three quick punches to Coen’s face. When he pulls his fist back from the last strike, blood trickles from a cut at Coen’s eyebrow. That’s all the refs need to rush in and stop the fight.
Except Coen’s still lipping at McNabb, cursing at the refs, and trying his darnedest to restart the brawl.
I move in, as does every other player on the ice. There’s yelling and name-calling, but the players try to deescalate by pulling McNabb and Coen apart. Kirill and Stone put hands on Coen’s shoulders, not to restrain him but to encourage him to back off. One of the refs gets in between. He’s a good guy—Andre Sneed—who’s been in the league as long as I have.
“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.