ONE
DECEMBER 28TH—CHICAGO BROAD WINGS VS BUFFALO BLIZZARDS
Gavin Marshal
Twenty more minutes. That’s all I have to remind Connor Kennedy that despite his being named MVP for the past three seasons, and winning Rookie of the Year six seasons ago, and being selected before me in the draft the year before that, he is still no better than I am.
Fine. He’s faster than me. A fact I am reminded of as soon as the ref drops the puck to start the third period and Connor wins the face off. I’m back to chasing his skinny ass down across the ice once again. And fine, the number of goals I’ve scored in my career he manages to deliver in a season. But I’m not here to score goals. I’m here to stop little rich boy punks like him from chipping the biscuit into the basket over my goalie’s shoulder.
Slam!I’m also here to hip check him into the boards.
“Don’t see you dancing with the puck now!” I chirp as the ref grabs me by my shoulder pads and skates me away from the flattened version of Connor Kennedy I left on the ice.
“Enjoy your front-row seat for the next two minutes, Marshal,” Connor says as he slowly rises. He eyes me with those damn winter-blue eyes of his and has the gall to smirk as he brushes thesnow off his hips and shoulders while I’m hauled away and placed back into my home. The penalty box.
No, really. This is my home. There’s a water bottle with my name on it waiting in here for me. I grab it and squirt some into my mouth as I settle onto the bench that Coach Matthews has dubbed my throne. Why? Because here, in Buffalo, New York, home of the Blizzards, I rule. I reign in the one aspect of hockey Connor Kennedy will never beat me at. Penalty minutes. In fact, I’m not even sure the league’s golden boy has ever seen the inside of a sin bin. I doubt he’s ever heard his home crowd cheer his name as he’s hauled off to “cool down” like they’ve been cheering mine since I hip checked him into oblivion.
Pretty boys like Connor only know what it’s like to be swooned over. How would he handle being feared instead of revered? Would those rich golden-brown curls of his that are flipping around the edges of his helmet still have the same luster? Would his blue eyes finally be seen by the masses as I see them? Cool and dismissive like the ice we skate on. How well would he handle being hated by every fan in every city but his own?
My guess is not well at all.
Connor Kennedy
“That should shut them up,” I say to my teammate James Bryant as the lamp lights up behind the net. I’ve tied the game. I bet Gavin Marshal isn’t sitting quite so smug now that I’ve made optimal use of his absence from the ice while he atones for his unnecessary roughing in the penalty box.
His throne. I roll my eyes. Imagine calling yourself king of penalty minutes.
“Nice one, Connor!” I can hear Coach Chris yell from the bench. “Now get your ass over here! Lars, you’re in for Kennedy.”
“I don’t need a break, Coach. I can play another shift,” I say as I skate by the bench, stopping Lars from climbing over the boards.
“Maybe,” Coach says as he nods his chin across the ice towardsthe penalty box where Gavin Marshal is standing, staring at me, and waiting to be set free like a captive angry bear before play begins again. I wink at him, and he grins, showing all of his teeth. “But I’m not leaving you out here like a meal. Now get on the bench.”
“Fine,” I relent and trade places with Lars.
Once seated. I take a quick look at the scoreboard. Sixteen minutes left of playing time with a tied score of one to one. I really should be out there. I’m our team’s best center and the best chance at putting another goal on the board to win this grueling game. Which is made even more grueling here in Buffalo where the ice is fielded with dirty players and the stands are full of rabid, bloodthirsty fans. Most of whom I’m sure only come here to watch Gavin Marshal fight and flatten his opponents.
I check the clock again. Five… four… three… two… one. The ref drops the puck. We win the face off and Marshal shoots after the puck like a rocket. Or more accurately, right towards James, one of our right wingers, who’s skating the puck within feet of the Blizzards’ net. Their goalie is poised. James is lining up his shot, and I brace myself for the collision he’s about to be railroaded with. A collision I know all too well; being laid out by Gavin Marshal is something I’ve been experiencing since before we were drafted into the league. Even back through juniors we were somehow always placed on teams pitted against each other. Destined to be rivals, I suppose. And here he is, about to take out that rivalry on my teammate.
Except… he doesn’t. Instead of knocking James to the ice, he snakes the puck out with his stick and passes it with a quick flick of his wrist to his own teammate waiting in the wings. Then on quick feet, he turns around and starts skating with abandon, keeping up with his teammates as they pass the puck back and forth between each other. The way they move and weave, the way they anticipate where the other will be, all while Gavin blocks any defense our team can offer comes as a reminder as to how they won the cup last year.
The Buffalo Blizzards are a literal storm front on the ice with Gavin functioning as the wind, blowing everyone off course. He covers more ice than the puck does, and he never touches it again. As he skates, his focus is clear. Once their center, Alexander Tavish, has the puck, Gavin parks his giant ass in front of our goalie making it impossible for him to see what’s barreling towards him.
It works and the home team’s goal horn blares once again. The Buffalo Blizzards have scored. The crowd is chanting Gavin’s name despite him not being the one who put the puck into the net. The roar of his name from the crowd is overwhelming.
I look down and smile at my skates, not wanting anyone to see that I’m proud of the man I’m supposed to loathe.
Gavin
“Gavin!” another reporter yells while shoving a microphone in my face in the locker room. I turn my attention to him and force a smile. I hate this part of the game. I want to get out of my gear, have a shower, and change. I want to go home, put my feet up on the armrest of my crappy couch and ice my knuckles and my knees. I no longer want to answer questions so that sports analysts and everyone watching me from their armchair with a beer in their hands, anywhere other than Buffalo, can call me a goon, or a brute. “That was quite the hit you gave Connor Kennedy?—”
Of course that’s what he leads with. That’s what they always lead with. Forget about the fact I made it possible for our team to score the goal that put this game to bed.
“—do you think treating your fellow players like that is going to make it hard for you to fit in on the United States team for the Olympics this year?”
I run my hand through my sweaty hair, pushing it back away from my face. “The roster for the US team hasn’t been announced yet.” I laugh and give the camera associated with this reporter my most devilish smile. “And I highly doubt it’s going to have my name on it.” Which is true. It’s the Olympics. As much as the generalmanager wants to win, he’s going to want that win with as little controversy as possible. Adding me to the roster is instant controversy.
“Your name better be on it!” My teammate Alexander Tavish comes running across the locker room from his stall and throws his arm around me. Canada was quick to claim him for their team. Which is smart. He’s an excellent forward and consistently good for at least one point per game. He ruffles my head with his gloved hand, causing chunks of my sweat-soaked black hair to fall back over my eyes, that I instantly push back again. Tavish grins and shakes me by my shoulders. “I want to know how the rest of the league feels squaring up against this man for a few weeks.”
