Travis turned in mid-celebration, suddenly embarrassed that he had made such a show of a totally meaningless goal. Sarah’s scream had come from the corner where she had turned after her cute setup. She was crumpled on the ice, and Nish was skating away backwards, pointing at her with the blade of his stick.

Jason’s whistle shrieked as he and Simon raced toward Sarah. Travis skated over quickly as well, passing Nish on the way. He glanced with dismay at Nish, but he couldn’t read Nish’s look. Anger? Surprise? Shock?

Simon loosened the strap on Sarah’s helmet, and Travis was able to get close enough to see that she was crying before Simon chased everyone away.

“Give her some air! C’mon, back off!”

Travis and the others skated back toward the blueline. Everyone looked shocked.

“What happened?” Travis asked Dmitri.

“Nish took her out. He hit her from behind when she wasn’t looking.”

“Nish?”

“I saw him.”

It had to be true. Jason was ripping into Nish over by the penalty box. Even in the hollow arena, the rest of the players could make out every shouted word.

“You stupid idiot!” Jason was screaming. “You coulda broken her neck. You can’t hit someone like that when they’re not expecting it!”

Nish’s answers were harder to make out, but Travis knew his friend’s voice well enough to get the drift.

“I thought we were supposed to ‘take out our man,’” he said to Simon.

“Who told you that?”

“Buddy. That’s exactly what he said when he creamed me. Remember? Or don’t I count?”

“He didn’t mean like that, you stupid jerk. You never, ever, ever hit from behind like that again. Now get off the ice before we throw you off! Get outta here!”

Nish swore and slammed his stick on the boards so hard it shattered. As he left, he pulled the gate behind him hard, so the noise exploded in the hollow rink.

Travis didn’t need to follow to know what Nish would do next. Kick the dressing-room door. Kick every bag and piece of equipment between the doorway and his locker. Throw his broken stick against the wall. Yank off his skates and throw them against the wall–better yet, strike the blades so Mr. Dillinger has to grind them down and rocker them again before a new sharpening. Throw his sweater on the floor. Throw his shoulder pads in the garbage. Throw his socks. Throw his shinguards. Sit and slump and sulk in his underwear until everyone comes in and sees how badly life is treating poor Wayne Nishikawa.

Travis knew Nish well enough to be almost certain he regretted his check on Sarah the moment he realized what he had done. The problem with Nish was that he couldn’t put the brakes on even when he knew he should–even when he wanted to. Having made the dumb hit, he had to follow through, knowing that only he would lose in the end. He was like fireworks. Once the fuse had been lit, there was no way to prevent the explosion. You couldn’t change direction, delay, or stop. You could only wait for it to go off and eventually die down on its own.

Sarah was still lying motionless on the ice. Simon had done the right thing by not taking off her helmet or attempting in any way to move her. They were asking her about her limbs–“Your left foot?…Your right arm?…Wiggle your fingers for us”–and Sarah was able to do as they requested.

“I think I’m all right,” she said. Her voice sounded weak and frightened.

“We have to be sure,” Simon told her. “Jason’s calling an ambulance. You just stay exactly where you are and don’t move.”

Simon rose from his knee and turned toward the rest of the players.

“Practice is over for today!” he called. “Off with your gear and shower. We’re headed back to the camp at ten-thirty sharp. Get a move on!” Nish was exactly as Travis had pictured him: slumped against the wall, the results of his personal tornado all about him. He seemed distraught and angry at the same time. He was shaking his head and mumbling to himself. Travis figured it was just as well they couldn’t make out what he was saying.

Everyone gave Nish a wide berth. Apart from Andy Higgins, hardly anyone even looked in his direction.

“That was a dumb thing to do,” Andy said directly to Nish.

Travis was surprised Andy would be so blunt. But good for Andy–he was speaking for them all.

Nish made an empty-hands gesture to show his own surprise. “Fine,” he said, his voice cracking. “It’s a big joke when ‘Fat Boy’ gets creamed by ‘Buddy Boy,’ but it’s a criminal act when ‘Fat Boy’ does the same thing to someone else.”

“Don’t be stupid, Nish,” said Andy. “You didn’t get hit from behind. And besides, nobody thought it was a big joke when that ass creamed you.”

“I was just finishing my check,” said Nish. He looked around, desperate for an ally, begging for anyone to agree with him, or even nod in sympathy.

“You may have finished Sarah,” said Travis.

Nish turned quickly, hurt and anger flashing in his eyes. He hadn’t figured Travis, his best friend, would turn on him.

“It was an accident.”

“No it wasn’t,” said Dmitri. “It was just stupid.”

Nish answered by picking up the one piece of equipment still within reach, a dropped glove, and hurling it hard against the ceiling. The glove popped back down and bounced off the top of the door to the washroom stall–up, over, and splash, directly into the toilet boil.

The sound was so unexpected, the bounce such a fluke, that everyone in the room began to giggle. Nish had accidentally released the tension that had built throughout this disastrous practice, and the giggles became laughs, and the laughs became howls of derision, all aimed his way.

Nish slumped deeper into the bench, his arms folded defiantly, his eyes closed, and, it seemed, small tears squeaking out on each side.

The fireworks were over.