I felt like I was going to crawl out of my skin. I was shaky, sweaty, almost dizzy. Did I actually want to kill him? Flashes crossed my mind. Ways I could hurt him. Ways I could make him pay. I wasn’t even worried about getting away with it. I just wanted him done.
And that night, I’d be facing him.
Violet and I made a plan for how to handle this. We decided it was best for her to stay home and not watch the game. I didn’t want to force her to look at that fucker’s face any more than I already had. She scheduled a therapy appointmentfor the Monday after the game, to be sure she had somewhere safe to let out any feelings that came up. Plus, while I didn’t have a specific plan for how to hurt him, I knew I’d act if the right opportunity came up.
I had no plans on being Mr. Nice Guy. Pete was about to get the other end of the stick.
“You sure you can play, Cap?”Dottie asked while we were getting dressed for the game.
“Medical cleared me,” I said. “It was just mental. My book had a graphic part and it got to me.”
He touched my forehead with the back of his hand like a mother. I didn’t know he had a single nurturing bone in his body. “Did you catch the air?”
“The air?” I asked.
“Yeah, uh. When the air moves in a room. The wind?” He gestured with his fingers.
Owen perked up. “You mean the draft?”
“Yes. The draft.” Dottie snapped his fingers. “Thanks, rookie. The draft makes you sick. Very bad for you.”
“What?” I took a swig of my water.
“Yeah,” Owen shrugged. “My Polish Babcia said it was true and she’s like 102. She knows stuff.”
“Sounds like an old wives’ tale,” Leroy said.
“It’s real,” Owen and Dottie said in unison.
But no drafty wind created this feeling inside me. I felt responsible. I knew Pete was weird, but did I make any moves to kick him off the team? No. Did I monitor his behavior? No. Was that my job? Probably not, but my Violet was the fallout of all this. My Violet suffered because of me. Because of him.
And he had to pay.
Warmies.
My muscles felt charged, like every fiber was a cannon ready to explode.
I stood on the red line dividing Dallas from Ohio. Pete Doyle was stretching a few feet away. An antsy feeling built in every limb and I kept shaking them out. Could I get away with sinking a skate between his legs? Cup be damned, I could do some damage.
He stood and skated my way, his goalie helmet in hand. “Oh, hey, what up, Cap? How ya been?”
A jolt flashed through me, fantasizing about all the ways I could end him. End his career. Maybe even end his life.
I never thought I’d be a murderous thoughts kind of guy, but he took something that wasn’t his to take.
“Don’t fucking talk to me,” I warned.
He blanched. “What’s up with you? I thought we were friends.”
I spat on the ice between our skates, wishing I could shoot my spit right in his face. And maybe that it was poisonous dinosaur spit or something. “We are not friends. You are the fucking scum of the earth.”
He held his hands out, milky white from all the time spent in a blocker and glove. “Why?”
I leaned in so close his breath fogged my visor. “I know what you did to Violet and you’re lucky you’re not already in the fucking ground.”
A flash of recognition passed over his face before he recoiled. “Who is Violet?”
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t fucking do that. You don’t get to disrespect her like that. You’ve already ruined enough.”
