The ice is cleared, and we head out for the first puck drop.
The Toronto players are notoriously ruthless, and tonight’s game is no exception. They’re here for a fight with a side of hockey, which is fine.
We’ll adjust.
And even though my shoulder is wrecked from my extracurricular duties earlier in the week, my passes are pretty much perfect.
Our starting lineup plays well, adjusting after a couple of heavy checks and missed calls by the refs.
I feel the momentum building as we get into the seventh minute of the first period and then, inexplicably, Coach Harris sends in a line change.
It’s a bad call. Bone-deep stupid. I clench my jaw and leap the wall, teeth bared as I skate past him.
“We had things well in hand,” I snarl.
“Respect the choice I made,” he snaps back, eyes locked on mine.
I don’t blink. “Then make a better one.”
Coach Darrell Harris is on the young side. He played hockey in college but didn’t draft well, and he only played two years in the pros. He moved straight into coaching, and this is his first NHL head coaching gig.
He’s nice enough off the ice, a dad type with a pretty wife and a couple of kids. But he has been an inconsistent son of a bitch when it comes to coaching.
I’d be awaiting his firing if I didn’t know who owned our club. I’m certain some of his shitty coaching decisions are purposeful. People like to bet on sure things, and making someone lose is way easier than assuring their win.
After gulping down water, I turn and watch a seemingly befuddled third line get beaten. Toronto sails past our defenders and knocks the puck right into the net with minimal effort. There are a few cheers from their fans throughout the stadium, but our Chicago Reapers fans are stunned.
One of them yells, “You suck, Harris!”
Agreed.
The teams reset, and our starting line grabs spots at the wall, ready to go back out. Darrell puts up a hand, telling us to hold.
“What the fuck, Coach?” Dom asks. “I mean, respectfully.”
Coach looks like he might vomit, and when his eyes surreptitiously travel to the owner’s box, my suspicions are aroused.
This is a thrown game.
Of course, as a Captain, I can’t tell my guys this. I can’t see that kind of discord when they need to focus.
Every single guy on this team is good enough to be here.
Good enough to get this win, regardless of whatever bullshit is going on between the coaching staff and ownership. And no matter who I am outside of this, I am all about hockey when I am here.
Ilovethis game, but I hate losing, especially when it seems like the system is rigged.
Fuck that.
Our third-string fight hard, taking advantage of a bad pass out of Toronto’s center. Our right-wing forward gets going, nothing between him and the goalie, when the center chases him down and shoves his stick out, tripping him. He faceplants, and the puck goes free, allowing the Toronto goalie a chance to scoop it up.
We all yell for a foul, but no whistle comes.
“That was blatant!” I yell.
“Tripping, ya blind fuck!” Conor yells. Then, to Coach Harris, “Why those fuckin’ guys? Why are they still out there?”
Everyone’s yelling, and it’s utter chaos. Our guys are slow to react because they genuinely expect the foul to be called, and when it isn’t, they’re a step behind Toronto, allowing them to score on us again.
