~KIMBERLY'S POV~

"Did you get lost on your way from the locker room, miss Mayfield?" Herb's cold politeness scares the hell out of me.

"No, coach. I am sorry I am late."

"Where are the others?"

Before I respond, coach Patrick comes back, followed by 26 guys in their gear and with sticks in hands. And going by the expressions on their faces, the bloodbath cannot be avoided. However, Herb seems to ignore the tensions between them and starts explaining practice plan.

"Coach Patrick and I will make four groups. When your name is called, skate forward and coach Patrick will give you a jersey. One more thing before we begin. Ten sprints after practice for being late."

A synchronized sigh echoes through the arena as coach's last words are spoken. That's one thing no one of us likes. Sprints. Or as we call them behind coach's back, Herbies. After the silence falls upon us, coach Patrick starts reading names: "First team. Johnson, McClanahan, Strobel, Christian ,Morrow and Ross"

Six guys skate to him and take the red jerseys he is handing them. Meanwhile coach Brooks calls up second 'team': "Harrington, Pavelich, Schneider, O'Callahan, Ramsey and Cox."

I get called into a third team along with Rizzo, Neal and Christoff as forwards and with Suter and Baker as defensive pair, while the fourth team consists of Les Auge, Jack Hughes as defence and Delich, Verchota, Wells and Silk as forwards.

Coach sends Buzzy Schneider in the second team, Ross from the first team, Rizzie from our team and Verchota from the fourth group along with Bruce Horsch, the third goalie on a bench until it's their turn.

After all of us have our 'team' jerseys on, coaches have us run the stretching, which is led by Morrow this time. I start getting bad feeling about all this when Jack stops next to me and smirks: "Hello again."

It takes every bit of my willpower to ignore him and continue with stretching. While doing that, my muscles are tense and I somehow expect him to pull some nasty trick on me to make me lose balance and make fool out of myself. But he doesn't. However, I can feel his glare on me and it's not nice.

After stretching, we line up on the goal line, preparing for hell. And when the whistle blows, the part I will never get used to begins.

~JACK'S POV~

I feel nervousness radiating from her and it's actually quite entertaining to see her tense like that. If I turn my head I can see how flexed are muscles in her neck as she is expecting something to happen to her. My glance jumps across the ice where Broten keeps small talk with McClanahan. Next I catch Coxy, Silky and Rizzo's glances and I have a felling they are trying to tell me not try anything.

After the stretching exercises and those suicide sprints, I join my 'team' and follow Herb's instructions while he explains the exercise we will be doing. The speed with which he draws the lines, which represent us, and talks about the strategy makes my brain hurt. How does anyone ever understand him? He sends the third team off the ice and has us and the first team run the exercise.

I watch notice how flowing the passes between the three offenders, Harrington, Pavelich and Schneider are, and how they don't even need to look where the puck is. They just find the way to make the play work, giving first team's defensive pair a hard job of stopping them. I admit, their style of playing is so creative, that they even finish their play with a goal, making Janny look like a kid. After quick fistbumps, it's time to run another play, this time with Ramsey and I trying to prevent the other team from scoring. I keep my gaze focused on the puck, not on the players, which turns out to be a mistake. I feel a force smack into me, sending me on the ice. I look up and see McClanahan standing near, a small smile on his face. In that moment I realize it was him who smacked into me, that little prick from Minnesota. When I smacked into him, I was the worst person ever, but now when he did the same...no one says anything. Why would they? Minnesotans stick together.

"That's what you get for calling us sissies, asshole."

"What are you? Ten? You Minnesotans apparently never grow up, you remain whiny bitches for ever, or what?"

I stand up but soon find myself back on the ice again. I glare up and see Verchota returning me an ice glare. If looks could kill...

"What is your problem?"

"Don't ever call us whiny bitches again, did you hear me?"

"Who the hell are you to tell me what to do? I am sure as hell you are not my mom. Thank god you aren't..."

Verchota squints his eyes and pulls me up by my jersey. He brings my face inches away from his and spits: "Don't you dare bring my mother into this."

"Come on, Phil, it's not worth it," Ramsey calls from his spot and skates closer only to be stopped by Coxy: "Stay out of it."

"Don't touch me," the youngest player spits back and shoves Ralph away. Ralphy is usually the calm one and I can count on how many fights he has been in on fingers of one hand. In his entire university career. But that push sets him off and he brawls his fist after dropping his gloves.

"You think I fear to punch you, kid?"
"Looks like it since you just talk and do nothing," Ramsey drops his gloves as well and swings his fists. And lightly said, the hell breaks loose. But I am way too busy fighting Verchota. I must admit, he is a good fighter, his fist connects with my jaw and I feel it swell. Also, the taste of blood fills my mouth and I haven't tasted that in quite some time. I spit blood on the ice and return Verchota a series of fast punches he can't block. We might be good at throwing punches, but he...well, he is taller and if I remember correctly from the tryouts, heavier. He tackles me down and that's when they pull us apart. Wiping a blood off my chin, I take a look around and see no one else than Coxy and Ramsey throwing punches as well. Well, Coxy is hanging on quite okay, considering he is about 4 inches (10 centimeters) smaller than Ramsey and less built. So it's really not a surprise when Ramsey tackles him on the ice.

"I thought I was coaching hockey players, not pathetic fighters, who happen to be wearing skates," familiar voice with Minnesotan accent echoes through the arena and we turn around. Of course, when the fight broke out, we forgot coach was on the ice and he still is.

"If you want to go to the Olympics, you, gentlemen, will have to leave everything from your college years behind. But the choice is yours. You can drop the gloves at any given minute," his gaze lands on me and I return him a glare. He is not going to scare me, it takes much more than just glaring daggers at me to make my heart stop. When I don't look away, he turns around and continues "or you can try and work as a team. The choice, once again, is only yours."

And with that, his lecture ends. No yelling, no cursing, just a simple monologue, said quietly and with authority in his voice and it was enough for us to remain quiet until the end of the practice. Oh, if we knew what he had in store for us.

~KIMBERLY'S POV~

I have never in my entire life seen a coach gain complete attention by speaking quietly. Actually, when he started talking, we could hear the pin drop. The guys from University of Minnesota exchanged surprised looks, which had me believe they had never seen him like that either.

Coach Patrick set up the marks in front of the net and we have to stand there, divided into two groups. Herb stops on the center ice: "There should be no problems with this drill. Both lines start at the same time, skate down the middle, to the far end and then back along the board. Each one of you has to do it...ten times. Then you repeat the same drill backwards, also ten times. Alright, let's go."

Soon, only the sound of hockey blades is to be heard, which is joined by heavy breathing and panting shortly after. When the whistle blows, all of us lean against the board and take deep sips of cold water. Neal turns over to me and spills some of his water on my back, making me gasp quietly and him chuckle under his breath.

"Moron," I mumble, plotting how would I get my revenge.

"Okay, Janazsak and Craig in the net, please. Half of you come with me, the other half stay on this side. We will be doing the same drill, only in two groups. Move to the right corner."

We all skate to the right corner, only on the different sides of the ice. Herb continues explaining the drill: "You start in a circle and stick handle one puck. At first we will do it with random pattern of stickhandling, then see how it goes. When I, or coach Patrick, blow the whistle, you shoot. Then one of us will pass you two pucks which you have to handle and shoot. After that, you will repeat the exercise with three pucks. Any questions?"

The arena sinks in silence, as we either have no questions either are too afraid to ask.

"Okay, so let's get started."

During the practice there is still something in the air and it's obvious the blood hasn't cooled down yet. But it's all done sneakily as I see Harrington continuously trying to trip Silk and Cox setting his skate on Ramsey's way when he is going back in the line. But we still don't manage to keep their temper under control and I am the first one to snap. Rizzo skates past me and hooks his stick between the outsole of my skate and the blade. Not expecting that, I stumble forward and crash into Dave Delich, making him fall on the ice.

"Are you out of your mind, woman!?"

"I am sorry, I didn't mean-"
"What, are you too clumsy to stand on your own feet? Damn it, O'Callahan was right, a girl has nothing to do here."

Rizzo overhears his harsh words and interrupts before I can open my mouth: "I crashed into her, she had nothing to do with it."

"She still has nothing to do here!"

Now I see Rizzo lose it as he clenches his fists around Delich's jersey and smacks him against the boards: "Don't ever say that again."
"You are fighting her battles, is she that weak?"

He didn't say I am weak, he didn't just step on a thin ice. I put my hand on Rizzo's shoulder: "Mike, he is right, you don't have to do this."

With those words, I punch Dave right in a face and feel warm blood cover my knuckles. Like in slow motion, he bends over, holding his bloodied nose and mutters under his breath: "Stupid airhead."

"What did you-"

"KIMBERLY MAYFIELD!"

Fuck. Great. Just great. Taking a deep breath, I look up and see our coach standing motionlessly on the center ice with an icy glare upon me.

"Yes, coach?"

"Off the ice. Now."

~JACK'S POV~

"Off the ice. Now." Herb's voice makes blood freeze in my veins and luckily, this time he didn't use that tone for me. He used it for a little miss Brown and I am pretty sure she won't be playing in Lake Placid. I lean over to Neal and whisper with a smirk: "Guess you will be visiting your girlfriend, cause she won't be here long."
"Shut up, Jack."
"Bite me."

With a satisfied grin I watch as Herb takes the girl off the ice and it seems like she is truly sorry. But not for punching, more for being caught. My gaze jumps over to Delich, who is taken off the ice by the Doc and Pavelich. Coach Herb looks at us once again before disappearing with the injured Minnesotan and the girl: "The show's over, get your asses back to practice. If I see you slacking off when I get back..."

He looks at coach Patrick, who blows the whistle and the practice begins again like nothing happened. Like a girl hasn't just punched a guy in a face for telling the truth.