January 2003
| Roughing
by lancenerd The NHL meets SDB's. Crossover Hockey AU starring *Nsync, BSB and O-Town Beta by Coreopsis (thanks for the bunny) and Arami who also provided technical assistance. Thank you Ladies! |
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Kirkpatrick passed the puck to Penick who took it to center before attempting to pass to Angel, but was intercepted by Underwood. Kirkpatrick skated fast across the ice, catching Underwood, elbowing him to give up the puck. Underwood stopped and shot the puck down the ice and the whistle was called for icing. Skating to the gate with his head down, Kirkpatrick spat on the ice. When he got to the gate, he moved aside for Fatone and Angel then sat down at the end of the bench as the players shuffled down to make room. Miller passed him a water bottle and he sprayed some in his mouth before spitting most of it out. The scoreboard showed they were up by 1, but there was still most of a period left. The bench watched the play, heads moving forward to see the scuffle in the corner then moving back when the play got close to the boards. "Bitch," Kirkptrick sneered. "Who?" Miller asked. "Fucking Richardson. He's asking for it." Kirkpatrick watched as Chasez from the other team broke away and faked then shot hoping for a goal, but Bass saved the puck. The whistle called and the players all shuffled down the bench as the line changed again. Fatone plunked down next to him. "Richardson's mouthing off again about that check on Angel in the second." "Fucker." Fatone spat then nodded. "Timberlake's up." "Yep." Kirkpatrick sat up straight. He watched the tall, lean player skate toward the red circle on the ice. Justin Timberlake was the hottest thing on ice right now. They said he was the next Gretzky. Kirkpatrick took more water and looked him over. Taking Timberlake down for what his team did to Angel last period would be a pleasure. A few minutes later, the line shuffled down again and Kirkpatrick stood to take his place on the ice again. He noticed Carter coming off the other line's bench. He was tall and stocky and, combined with Richardson, just what the other team needed to protect their star player and prince of the NHL for the moment. It was Kirkpatrick and Fatone's job to test that theory. Timberlake and Littrell skated toward the face-off area and Carter circled around from the other side. "Don't even think about it, Kirkpatrick," Carter said as he skated to a stop next to him. "Wouldn't dream of it, Nicky my boy." Carter looked at him from under his helmet, an evil smirk on his face. "You wanna go, old man?" He clicked the blade of his stick against Kirkpatrick's. Kirkpatrick smacked Carter's blade and sneered back, "When it's time to go, you won't know what hit you, punkass." The puck dropped and Carter lunged toward him, but Kirkpatrick moved forward and hit him straight on, causing Carter to crash to the ice. Kirkpatrick skated away to cover Littrel and Penick. Underwood took the puck and went down the ice, but the official called offside. Two minutes for commercials were called so both teams moved toward their respective benches to gather water and strategies. Quickly glancing at the other bench, he noticed Richardson giving him a look. McLean nudged Richardson and they both muttered to each other. "Keep it up, pretty boy," he said under his breath. The whistle sounded and the players moved back toward the face-off area. This time Richardson was out on the ice covering Fatone, but was giving Kirkpatrick the evil eye just the same. The puck dropped and everyone moved around the ice to do their respective jobs. The other team nearly scored, but this time the officials called offside and Kirkpatrick rotated off the ice. After another face-off, the line changed and Kirkpatrick went out again. He was pleasantly surprised to find Timberlake out with him. The puck dropped and Timberlake gathered it and spun around toward Bass at the net. Kirkpatrick saw him coming and skated toward him, ready for action. He collided with Timberlake and dug his shoulder into his solar-plexus. The air came out of Timberlake's lungs with an 'oof' and he smashed into the boards, rattling the glass before crumpling to the ice. Kirkpatrick took the puck and passed it to Angel, who sped away toward the other goal. Some of the crowd booed at Kirkpatrick, but most of the hometown crowd cheered. The fans nearest the boards banged on the glass as Timberlake slowly got to his feet. Kirkpatrick skated toward center ice when he was hit from behind. He fell forward to the ice, letting himself fall flat so he wouldn't break his wrists. Now he had a decision to make. He could lie there face down and let Richardson take the penalty, or he could get up and make the penalty worthwhile. The whistle blew, deciding his fate and Richardson went into the penalty box for 2 minutes. Kirkpatrick discreetly pointed at Richardson as he went to his own bench, grimacing in mock pain. He sat down and grabbed the water bottle as Miller and Dorough took to the ice to do what they did best on the power play. Miller scored and the fans went nuts. Richardson scowled across the ice at Kirkpatrick who just smiled back. Three minutes were left in the third period when Kirkpatrick took to the ice again. There was another commercial, so the line changed then skated around a bit before moving into position. Kirkpatrick groaned low in his throat; his knees were hurting and he'd have to ice them down later or else he wouldn't be walking tomorrow. The next day they started a six game road trip and he wasn't looking forward to sitting on a plane for four hours to get to New York. He couldn't worry about that right now, however. There were still 3 minutes left to play. The whistle trilled and the puck was dropped. Kirkpatrick nudged Estrada out of the way before moving toward the puck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a large shape move toward him. "Fell pretty hard there, Kirkpatrick. You're getting soft around the middle." Kirkpatrick licked his lower lip. "No, but you're obviously soft in the fucking head, Richardson." With that, he gave him a shove. Richardson laughed and shoved back. They skated toward the puck, shoving and nudging each other as they moved across the ice. When they were halfway between the blue and red line, Richardson's stick tapped Kirkpatrick's skate blade. "Fuck off," Kirkpatrick said and swung around to avoid the stick a second time. This time Richardson hit him between the shoulder blades and sent him flying into the boards. Fans booed at Richardson as Kirkpatrick stood up and wheeled around to face his attacker. Richardson dropped his gloves first, but Kirkpatrick was quicker and he threw the first punch. His fist connected with Richardson's face, but slipped off the sweaty skin without doing much damage. Richardson on the other hand got a good uppercut that sent Kirkpatrick's teeth through his lip. His helmet flew off and landed on the ice where it spun around a few times before coming to a halt. Kirkpatrick smiled, blood pouring out of his mouth and with a roundhouse punch, hauled up and smacked Richardson in the head. The hometown crowd went wild, cheering Kirkpatrick on, their screams music to his ears. Now it was time for Richardson's helmet fly off and Kirkpatrick ripped the ties that held Richardson's jersey to his pants and started to pull his jersey up and over his head. Kirkpatrick was shorter than Richardson and it took some effort, but he did it. He punched along Richardson's side, hitting him in that sensitive area between his padding ended and ribs began. He barely felt Richardson's blows mostly falling along his back and neck. Finally, both men fell to the ice and the whistles blew before the officials came to break them apart. Kirkpatrick spat on the ground toward Richardson, the blood staining the pristine white of the ice. He wiped the blood on the sleeve his jersey as he was escorted off the ice, held by the scruff of the neck by one official, while the other gripped him by the arm. He took one more look at Richardson, who was still kneeling on the ice and smiled. "You might as well go to the dressing room. Clock'll run out by the time your penalty's over." Chris just nodded as he stepped off the ice, one of the trainers jumping toward him, pressing a bag of ice in his hand. The fans shouted and screamed at him from the stands above. As he went to the dressing room, he could hear the announcer list off their sins. "Richardson, number twenty-two. Instigating, major for fighting, game misconduct..." The crowd's cheers drowned out the rest of the calls. Kirkpatrick barely heard his name and the fighting and game misconduct charges against him as he went through the door of the locker room. It was silent as the heavy door swung shut behind him. He held the bag of ice to his face and wiped his bloody lip on his sleeve again. He knew Richardson would get another minor penalty for not having his jersey tied down. Stupid bastard never could tie tight enough knots. The trainer immediately went over to the first-aid trolley and began extracting various tubes of ointment and gauze as well as the suture kit. Kirkpatrick groaned as he sat on the bench, letting the trainer attend to his wounds. He didn't mind the cut to his lip and bruises; he'd just look more menacing for the next game. After all, that's what they paid him for. The end. Back |