The guys launched into a spirited debate about whether goaltender interference was good or bad based on how often it worked in our favor versus the other teams’. It was all lighthearted chirping, of course; we all drew penalties whenever possible, and Hoskins had drawn his fair share, too, which had worked in our favor.
It was just fun to talk shit because, well, that was half of hockey.
We all continued with our post-practice routines. Before too much longer, the locker room had mostly cleared out aside from the equipment managers. The lounge, however, was lively. Vasily, Brown, Nix, Hoskins, and I had all commandeered a table, and even long after they’d finished eating, we hung out.
“Okay, I have to know.” Brown thumped his knuckle on the table. “That time you and McLean threw down in the playoffs—was thatreallybecause he tripped Jorgensen? Or was there something else going on?”
Vasily laughed, playing with the cap from his now empty Gatorade bottle. “It was, and it wasn’t. The trip—that was just the last straw.”
We all leaned in.
“So what was behind it?” Nix asked. “What the hell did he do?”
“Mostly shooting off his stupid mouth,” Vasily muttered. “I don’t know how much of it made it into the broadcast, but he just…” Rolling his eyes, he gestured like someone talking and talking. “It was all stupid chirps, but he was trying to get under everyone’s skin. Crossing the line, you know?”
Hoskins scowled. “What a dick.”
“He was,” Vasily agreed. “Even the refs told him to knock it off, but he just kept right on yapping. After he tripped Jorgensen—well.” Vasily shrugged innocently. “He clearly wanted his ass handed to him, so I obliged.”
That had all of us laughing, and he snickered too.
“It was a hell of a fight,” Brown said. “Did he really cut your hand with his tooth?”
Nodding, Vasily sat up a bit. He made a fist and turned it, gesturing at his middle knuckle. Sure enough, there was a silvery gouge across the bone.
“So who lost that one?” Hoskins asked. “His tooth or your hand?”
Vasily quirked his lips, then wobbled his hand in the air. “I broke his tooth, but I also had to spend that intermission getting the cut cleaned out so it wouldn’t get infected.” He shuddered, sitting back in his chair. “I should’ve beat his ass a second time just for that.”
My teammates and I laughed.
“Oh, that’s the worst.” Nix grimaced. “I caught some asshole’s tooth back in major juniors, and the shit they use to clean out that cut…” He chafed his arms and shuddered.
Hoskins snorted. “How the hell are you guys gettingbittenso much?”
“They’re not biting!” Nix said. “But when you punch someone in the mouth, sometimes you catch a tooth.” He narrowed his eyes. “Not that agoaliewould know anything aboutfighting.”
Hoskins punched him in the arm.
“Ow!” Nix scowled, rubbing his arm. “Dick.”
“Then don’t talk shit,” Hoskins muttered.
That earned him the finger. Then we were all off on a lively tangent about how it was a crime that none of the leagues—from the NAPH on down to the peewees—would let goalies fight. Notwith each other, and not with skaters. Yeah, yeah, yeah, goalies didn’t learn to fight like we did, so there was more of a risk of injury, blah, blah, blah. Still. We’d all been robbed of some glorious fights, especially last season when Seattle’s own Jan Stetina had been ready to cross the red line and beat the hell out of Miami’s goalie. The refs had stopped him before he’d even made it into the neutral zone, and the fans in attendance were probablystillbooing over it.
“I would’ve paid to watch him throw down,” Hoskins said. “Yanni would have laid that fucker out.”
“I can’t believe they wouldn’t let him,” I muttered. “It would’ve been hilarious.”
“He’s still mad about it, too,” Vasily laughed. “Condit likes to ask him about it just to get him fired up. It’s fucking hilarious.”
I could see that. I’d played with Yanni’s younger brother, Marek Stetina, in Vegas, and he’d told us plenty of stories about needling his brother. The fact that Yanni’s teammates had also learned how to push his buttons—yeah, that tracked.
Right then, Coach strolled into the lounge and gave us a puzzled look. “Are you boysstillhere?”
As one, we all checked our phones.
“Oh, shit.” Brown pushed his chair back and rose. As he headed for the door, he was typing on his screen as he told us, “Gotta go, guys. My wife is going to kill me.”
