Quinn rips her helmet off, shaking out a tangled mane of blonde locks as she skates to the side of the rink, panting. Her brows are knitted, scowling. Lips pulled into a frown of irritation as she regards the other team with a clenched jaw and subtle, behind-the-back middle finger.

Not like she's the only one. Let it be known, McKinley are sore losers. Especially when this was the best sport at the school. Which wasn't saying much, considering the football team were the worst in the state.

Santana is less subtle. "Y'have no fucking shame. Do ya, bitches?" The Latina hollers across the ice, hips cocked in furious swagger as she tosses her helmet over the side. It bonks some poor chick from JV in the head, not that Santana notices. Or cares. She's too busy raising her fist, about to scream something that would undoubtedly get her benched for the next season except for the fact her stick is still in her hand, and it thunks wildly into you and almost knocks you clean off the ice.

"Oh, shit." She spins, enemy team temporarily forgotten as she winces. Quinn is already at your side, even more peeved, if that's possible. "S, watch it!"

Santana's ire is redirected to a closer, blonder target. Who is within striking range. "Me, watch it? How about you watch the fucking puck next time?"

Quinn's eyes narrow. "Oh, please. With the amount of penalties you've got, you're an absolute waste of a jersey." She's rubbing your shoulder as she speaks, though its more to stoke Santana's guilt than soothe anything. It totally works, because Santana's retort dies on her lips, and she acquiesces in a very-Santana-way by rolling her eyes and grumbling "Fuckin' Canadians," as she takes your other arm, the two of them flanking you like bodyguards.

"They're the district over."

"Whatthefuckever, Q."

Then, belatedly. "I didn't hook you too bad. Did I?" Santana does sound a little guilty. You can tell they're still pissed off, though. Pent-up. Wounded competitive spirit that needs nursing.