As a plan for post-game recon is forming, I start getting dressed for the game. I’m stopped short by a sharp pain in the muscle of my shoulder.
“Fuck,” I growl. “Fucking shoulder.”
Dom smacks me on the back. “Off to the therapy room for you, old man.”
“Old man,” I mutter.
“Razvalyukha,” he says.
“I’m notfalling apart.You have no idea. Back in a bit.”
I wander out into the hallway and down to the therapy gym, where one of our lovely, strong-handed therapists, Rita, shoves me up on a table and proceeds to torture me as she works the kink out of my shoulder.
“What happened?” she asks.
“Oh, I think I just tweaked it during conditioning yesterday,” I say.
A lie. I actually tweaked it, punching a man so hard he was concussed. Rita doesn’t need to know that, though.
About fifteen minutes later, Rita sends me off with a tender but slightly more mobile shoulder, and I head back to the locker room to suit up.
At game time, we head down the tunnel, all about half asleep from the less-than-rousing pregame speech our coach offered.
Thankfully, pregame is a whole spectacle with music, lights, and video featuring our best moments.
At home games, we are gods. We head out on ice to a cacophony of cheers, lights low as we skate around and do a few warmups.
They announce the Toronto team’s starting lineup, who all skate out to a chorus of jeers. Once their team is lined up, they make a big deal about our starting lineup, and the lights dim for dramatic effect. I dance back and forth from skate to skate, stick in hand, as they call out our goalie, our defensive players, our center.
Then they call me.
I tap the Captain badge stitched onto my right arm and skate out slowly, stick raised high. The crowd roars like thunder.
But when Dominic’s name is announced—Jesus.
The placeerupts.
ChicagolovesThe Assassin.
Every damn person is on their feet.
“Still a celebrity, I see,” I say as things calm down, a local chorus walking out over a red carpet on the ice, ready to sing the National Anthem.
“Don’t be jealous, Boss,” he says, grinning as he moves his hand over his heart.
“Shut the fuck up, twats,” Conor says. “This is my National Anthem. Be respectful.”
“They haven’t started singing yet, Mouth,” Dom shoots back.
“Come on now, boys, let’s not bicker,” says Max Knight, our center. “The children are watching.”
“Max, always smiling for the cameras,” Conor says. “Mr. Social Media Influencer. Don’t fuck up his perfect public persona.”
I actually snort at this because I know just exactly what that suave, put-together façade is hiding. Max Knight is a hell of a hockey player, but he’s also a gambling addict with a fuck-ton of debt owed to the wrong people.
“Now who’s ruining the National Anthem?” Dom mutters, grinning.
The song ends, and we all skate to the bench.
