The third period had just begun when Eros finally managed to get in Big-D’s face in the corner. I was too far away to hear the first part of it, but when they came toward our bench, I could hear Eros asking: “…do you spit or swallow?”
Big-D’s face turned blood-red. And when his shift was up, he straddled the bench and gave me a rough shove out of his way.
“Enough!” Hartley spat. “Pay attention to the fucking puck, okay? What’s your job, here?”
“I didn’t sign up for this shit,” Big-D returned. “And I’m not throwing down for him if they jump him again.”
“Shocker,” I muttered.
Orson let in another lamplighter, unfortunately, and the whole bench grunted with disappointment. And then it was time to faceoff again. I heaved myself over the wall, coming face to face with Graham for a second. His face was red, and his eyes were burning with something that I couldn’t read. But it was probably disgust, the same as everyone else.
Saint B’s won the faceoff, and Graham took off after the puck. He correctly anticipated the pass to Eros, and leaned in.Hit him, my subconscious begged. As if it mattered. As if anything could make this moment more bearable.
But Graham didn’t hit him. Instead, his weapon was a simple poke-check. But he got that stick in there just a little further than necessary, and managed to trip Eros even as Graham passed the puck to Hartley. I blinked, wondering if that was intentional.
Eros went down hard, and the ref didn’t call Graham on it.
The moment that Eros picked himself up off the ice, he skated toward Graham. And in that moment I learned two things: 1) the night could still get worse. And 2) the word “faggot” is the easiest English word to read off someone’s lips. I watched it roll off Eros’s ugly mouth.
Graham flinched so big that I could see it across the rink.
And then? Well… That’s when I really lost my shit. Because my teammates could not be called that word because of me. Shutting him up was the only thing that mattered to me anymore.
Eros went after the puck, and I went after Eros, choosing a vector across the ice that would put me at the same point along the boards where he’d arrive. It wasn’t rational. That spot on the ice wasn’t even mine to cover. But I just charged, both ends of my stick in my hands. I cross-checked him in the hip, and he did a Roadrunner-style splat onto the plexi.
The hit was blatantly illegal. But it didn’t matter. Because I already knew that the refs weren’t going to be my biggest problem.
It only took a couple of seconds for another Saint B’s player to power over to us and throw a punch at me. I ducked, so it only grazed me. I don’t even remember throwing off my gloves. But then they were gone, and I was swinging back at him. The arrival of Hartley at my side to back me up was just a blur on the edge of my consciousness.
Then the blur developed a distinct black and white color scheme, as the linesman and the ref jumped in to separate the four of us.
“You’re done!” the ref shouted, my right arm restrained in his grip. “Major penalty and disqualification. One game suspension.” He gave me a hard shove toward the bench. “Off the ice. Right now, or I’ll make it a two-game suspension.”
In the NHL, fighting was just part of the game. In college? Not legal.
I barely registered the sound of the screaming fans as I skated off, head down. And then Coach was yelling at me. At us, actually. Because Hartley was standing right beside me. “You fucking guys! Dumber than posts, both of you. We have to play fucking Union next week, and you won’t fucking be there. Thanks for that…”
He was still yelling as I limped down the chute. The roar of the arena died when the door shut on us. And then it was just Hartley and I, alone with our shock.
The captain collapsed, defeated, onto his locker bench. His voice was so low that I almost missed what he said. “I have never been ejected from a game before.”
“You’rewelcome,” I spat. Not that I was making any sense. Another guy might have even thanked Hartley for throwing down like that.
But I didn’twantanyone to throw down for me. That was the fucking problem. I didn’t want to be that guy who brought down humiliation on the backs of his teammates.
I tossed my pads onto the floor one after another, and then stomped into the showers, staying under the water as long as I dared. But before the team came off the ice, I was out of there. I got dressed and snuck out of the building. Like the loser that I was.
Scoring Chance: an attempt or an opportunity for a player to score a goal.
—Rikker
An hour and a half later, I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, holding two ice packs against my bare chest. They might or might not keep the swelling on my bruised ribs to a minimum.
Whatever.
A trip to Capri’s was out of the question. Not only was I banged up; I’d never been more embarrassed in my life. I just lay there in a pair of ripped jeans, too exhausted to even get ready for bed. Someone knocked on the door. It was probably Bella, come to check on me. If I were to leave town, she’d be the only one to notice. She and Coach.Fuck. I didn’t even want her company. I just wanted to be left alone to sink into the fucking floor.
We lost the fucking game. 0-4.
