“Real original, asshole!” I shout back before swiping up my guard and shoving it back in my mouth. Not my best comeback, but the verbal game was never my forte.
I can handle Lapointe’s hits. The bigger issue is he hasn’t stopped chirping at me since we got on the ice.
Or maybe he’s been ‘quacking,’ since we’re playing the Ducks?
Regardless, I’ve already missed two easy shots – or easy for me – and it’s pissing me off.
It’s only preseason, but clearly no one has forgotten how last year ended for me, and they’re not planning to let me forget it either. Especially not Lapointe.
I streak down the ice and get back in position. We’ve got the puck, and Bouchard is trying to find a shot. I’m wide open, and he glances my way but passes to Cote instead. Cote tries to flick the puck into the top left corner, but it bounces off the crossbar and the goalie smothers it when it hits the ice again.
“What the fuck?” I say to Bouchard as I skate by him. “I was open.”
“Sorry, didn’t see you,” he says. “Next time.”
Fuck that. He saw me. He didn’t trust me to make the shot.
I pull my mouthguard out and spit blood onto the ice.
“Looks like you’re bleeding,” Lapointe says as he skates up, getting in my face. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you covered.”
His glove is off, and he grabs the front of my jersey to shove something down the collar. I push him away and reach for whatever he just put down my shirt. I feel a small lump, but I can’t grab whatever it is. I take off my glove and reach into my jersey to pull out…a tampon.
I’ll fucking kill him.
I wheel around to find Lapointe and take off as I spot him. He’s laughing, but his face turns serious when he realizes I’m not stopping.
I slam him back against the boards as he swings at my head. The blow glances off my helmet, and he opens his mouth to yell at me, but I shove the tampon into his open trap and clamp my hand over it to hold it in as I pin his head to the glass. His eyes widen, and he throws another punch that dislodges me before he spits the tampon onto the ice.
“Motherfucker!” he shouts.
Lapointe and I punch each other wildly, each trying to land something. Kelsier and Petruck join the fray along with a couple of the Ducks, then the refs are on us, pulling us apart.
One of the refs picks up the tampon by its string.
“Match penalty, number seventeen,” he tells me. “You’re outta here.”
“He’s the one who brought it!” I yell as I gesture at Lapointe, who’s smirking at me. “I was just giving it back to him.”
“Out! Now!” the ref repeats as he directs me toward the tunnel.
I go, swearing like a sailor the whole way.
“PMS is a bitch, right?” Lapointe calls to me, and Kelsier has to block me from turning to go after him again.
“Take it easy,” Kelsier says. “You’ve already been kicked out. Don’t make it worse.”
He’s right. How did I let things get this bad?
Ash
Two hours later, I’m showered, dressed, and on my way up to see the big boss – the owner – who asked to see me after the game. And when I say ‘asked,’ I mean that in the same way my mother used to ask me to take out the trash.
“Go right in, Mr. Gunnarsson. He’s waiting for you,” Mr. Kaladin’s assistant says as I approach her desk.
“On a scale of one to atom bomb, how pissed is he?” I ask her.
She only smiles encouragingly, and I sigh before I knock a couple times and open the door.
