The ref blows his whistle again. Barron rolls his eyes and skates toward the bench. “Can we just refuse to play the rest of the game?
Needless to say, we lose the game. Not even New Jersey is happy about winning.
“Is it really a win when the refs throw the game?” Alex yells as he skates off the ice, furious.
“Seriously, is there someone we can call and report that shit to?” Etna asks. I’m not sure he’s talking to anyone specific as he files off the ice with the rest of us. I catch Julian flipping off the refs as he leaves the ice.
As we make our way into the chute, I hear someone in the crowd above hollering, “You’re a bunch of fucking disgraces, refs!”
“We didn’t pay to watch the refs play chess and throw the game!” another screams.
“At least it isn’t just us,” I say.
I’m trying to play it off like I don’t fucking care. So we lost. Big deal. We’ll come back in the next game. It’s not the first game we lost this year, and it won’t be the last. That’s the way of hockey.
But fuck, is it infuriating when the refs interfere like that. I really do wish there was someone we could call about it. Though I can only imagine what they’re going to say… “So, youlostand you want us to look into the refs?” I can just hear their mocking tones.
The calls couldn’t come from the losing team. They needed to come from the winning team. Or someone higher up.
No, there should be better checks and balances by the ref’s association or whatever. Whoever oversees the refs. That’s the answer. I’ll never understand why they can get away with so much.
The locker room is quieter than I’ve ever heard it. There’s zero talking. Just the sound of everyone peeling off their pads and maybe dropping them a little more aggressively than usual. I can feel the frustration and anger boiling just under the surface.
As usual, I climb onto the bus after Etna. He’s already sitting beside the window, staring absently outside. It’s a cold, dark night and the wind is biting. I was born in the South, so I’m not necessarily attuned to East Coast weather, but I understand that this kind of chill is early for this time of year.
Shivering, I fall into the seat beside Etna. He glances at me, giving me an unauthentic smile that barely touches his lips. He had two penalties today. Neither of which were accurate. One should have actually been on the other team.
“You okay?” he asks.
Another of the many penalties that should have been called on the other team was the way I was practically picked up and body-slammed onto the ice. Even the crowd was chanting “This isn’t wrestling,” and we were on New Jersey ice!
Seriously, I laid there for a hot fucking minute as I struggled to get the air back into my lungs as the game continued around me.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Horny turns in his seat in front of us. Lund Hornback, affectionately called Horny, is our goalie. And he’s damn good, too.
“I think Hilt and Julian are talking about hitting a club to release a little steam,” Horny says. “If you’re interested.”
Etna is already shaking his head before Horny even finishes talking. “Honestly, with the bullshit that was pulled on Caulder last year? Not a fucking chance am I hooking up in a club. In fact, I don’t know if I’ll ever step foot in a club again. I’m good.”
I chuckle. That was a wild ride. Some chick claimed Caulder knocked her up, but Caulder maintained that not only is he gay, but he’d never seen her before. The paternity test ended in his favor and the girl disappeared. However, for a solid month or two, Caulder was fucking miserable. The media was not kind, either.
Etna’s right. No, thank you. It’s always been a legitimate fear of mine to accidentally knock up some chick and end up with a kid and baby mama drama for the rest of my life. Hence why I’m far more celibate than I’d like to be. Me and my hand are close friends.
“It’s late and I’m old,” Etna adds without conviction.
He’s not entirely wrong on the ‘late’ part of that claim. It’ll be nearly eleven by the time we get back into our hotel room. However, he is far from old. At three years my senior, he’s only twenty-five.
Horny snorts. “Right.”
Hilt and Julian sit in the seat across the aisle from ours. Hilt Callahan is one of our defensemen. He’s been playing for eighteen years. Or is it nineteen now? Anyway, he’s old hockey and still damn good. I’ve never seen someone with such quick reflexes, though he’s been heavily hinting that he’s thinking about retiring this year.
It would be a blow to lose Hilt. I’d like to think he and I make a good wall in front of Horny. And he’s a huge dude, too.
Julian shakes his head and icy water droplets slap my face like ice shards. “Fucker,” I mutter, shoving him across the aisle.
He gives me a big grin and runs his hands through the short braids sticking up around his head. He almost always has his hair like that. I think it’s part of his aesthetic as much as it is his culture. Honestly, I love it. Not enough people understand how hair alone adds to personality. And he loves to spray us all with water. Bitch.
