So, I decide to play a little dirty. Who cares if we don’t have pads? It’s not hockey without hitting. That’s what I’m thinking when I try to slam Logan into the wall. Try being the operative word. He barely budges, and I almost eat it, falling forward on my skates. Logan gets a wicked gleam in his eye, and the next thing I know, I’m the one being slammed—a gentle slam—against the wall. My stick thwacks against the plexiglass as Logan’s body presses into mine. Holy hockey, Batman.
