I said it wasn’t me. I told my truth. My friends solidified my alibi that Idon’tgo out and I didn’t go out with them that night. Still, she insisted on pursuing it. Even after the test results, which, according to Alexandra’s reports, she’s insisting are false.
That was probably the tipping point that made me decide to pursue the case when I wouldn’t necessarily otherwise. I want her to go away. But she’s still refusing to.
I still hear the random comment as I head into the chute about it. Like now, as I refuse to sign something for a fan, shecalls, “You can get me pregnant, Caulder! I won’t post about it online.”
“That disgusting and inappropriate,” Sacha tells her. “Go. You not getting autographs from Skidmoss.”
A smile touches my lips as I duck my head and keep walking. As soon as we’re in the locker room and everyone’s gathered, Sacha says, “Fan in orange hat, red plaid shirt, female, wearing garish red lipstick—we won’t sign shit for her. She’s gross to Caulder.”
It’s not the first time an announcement like this has been made. We now have a Karen board that we carry around, snapping pictures of the assholes who come to the game and say something disgusting like that. They’re on a fan ban list.
I drop to the bench and tip my head back to spray water in my mouth from the water bottle beside me. Hydration is key to life.
“I really want to win this,” Astor grumbles. “We’re not playing baseball. There’s no batting of pucks in this game.”
Meddy laughs. “Just appreciate it for the beauty, Astor. It was a fun shot.”
Astor huffs.
Creed sits beside me, flashing me a smile. “That was a sweet assist.”
“Linden’s always fun to get one up on.”
He laughs. “He’s a good egg. I always enjoy talking to him at events.”
Coach comes in a few minutes before the next period for a pep talk. We’re playing a good game but so is New York. We need to play a better game.
I enjoy playing at home; though in New York, there’s always a good mix at all arenas of fans from both teams when any two of the three New York teams play each other. Since we’re hometoday, more than half of the seats are a bright mix of yellow and grass green. The rest are black and honey bee yellow.
I’m on the ice for the puck drop and we spend the first seven minutes chasing the puck from one end to the other. I collide with Menlo Dexter, slamming my body into his against the boards with abam. The puck remains lodged between us as he tries to keep it in possession. I’m not sure whose stick slips in and scoops it away, but we break apart when the puck disappears.
Creed has the puck and is flying down to the other side. As I watch him, I absently muse that maybe he should have been in the All-Star Games, not just a member of the audience. That man is fucking fast. I follow at a distance, keeping toward the back of the New York ice to attempt to keep the puck down this end.
It feels almost like I predicted it coming my way because Creed loses the puck as it’s slid along the wall behind the goalie and toward me. I retrieve it, as five big guys skate toward me, and send it back to Creed who’s positioned slightly behind me on our end.
As soon as we’re down in New York’s defensive zone, the puck gets picked away by Pen and tossed toward the wall. Creed retrieves it, but Pen and Linden are right on him, boxing him in against the boards.
Somehow, Creed shoots the puck away into empty ice. But then Jakub is right there where no one had been and shoots the puck. Their goalie blocks it, the puck bouncing off his stick. But Jakub is still in the zone and he makes the rebound, hitting it in mid-air back to the net, and this time, it gets by Daryn Sweetwater for the goal.
Creed laughs, sliding into Jakub’s side for a brief hug before they break away. The rest of the team surrounds Jakub after, hugging him and tapping his helmet. Congratulating him.
This is the last goal of the game, and we win 3-2.
It doesn’t always happen with every team, but Buffalo and New York meet on the ice to exchange parting salutations of ‘good game’ and other shit. It’s proof that our teams get along when there’s a lot of smiles and teasing as we move down the line.
I head for the chute with half the team in front of me, once again, needing more water. I should have drunk more during the game, probably, but it’s kind of a pain in the ass distraction when I suddenly have to piss.
There’s a roadblock within the chute and I stop before I run into Three. My attention is focused ahead, as usual. Some of my teammates take this opportunity to sign things since we’re stopped. I hear my name again, but I ignore it, choosing to concentrate on catching my breath.
Something moving down the wall on my right makes me turn my head and I’m facing a stuffed bear. It’s probably three feet tall, fluffy gray. It has a #13 Skidmoss jersey on—my number—and a hockey helmet painted in pride rainbow colors. Between its paws is a banner that reads, “YOUR FANS SHOULD HAVE SUPPORTED YOU.”
My shoulders fall as I look up. There’s a young teenage girl there, also wearing my jersey. She gives me a smile. For some reason, I believe the sincerity in it. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice barely reaching me above the crowd. “You deserve better from your fans.”
Tears sting my eyes. I’m afraid if I smile, I may cry. So I just nod and reach for the bear. She releases the cord she has it dangling on. I hug it to my chest and close my eyes for a minute. When I open them, she’s giving me a teary smile in return. I reach up and hand her my stick.
“Thank you.”
“I don’t need anything in return,” she says, shaking her head.
