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"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Pyotr Gallen is fucking furious.

"Drew blood, Gallen, that's a double."

"How is that not offsetting? Are you stupid?"

"You want more?"

"Fuck's sake."

Julien Villeneuve, the man in the stripes, skates to center ice and turns on his mic. "Hamilton, number fifty-one, four minutes for high sticking. Seattle, number nine, two minutes for embellishment."

Gallen skates into the box and Fiorentini, a towel wrapped around his nose, skates into the box opposite from him.

"You are so fucking lucky."

"Whatsamatter, Petey?" Fiorentini smiles. "You drew blood, didn't ya?"

"You're such a fucking loser, Benny." Gallen shakes his head. "Cracking your nose off the ice on your dive so you can draw blood isn't ME drawing blood, you dumb fuck."

"Man, they taught you how to talk like a real Canadian boy out there in Hamilton, eh?" Fiorentini laughs. "You got beat by one of the best in the business at getting a call. No need to be upset about it."

"Shut the fuck up."