I got up and rinsed my hand and wrapped it in a washcloth from the rack. The crack in the mirror ran from corner to corner now, bisecting my face.
I stood at the window instead and watched the lights of the Strip pulse and flicker below, all that noise and motion and desperate wanting, and none of it had anything to do with me.
I saw him two weeks later, late in the second period.
The play had just whistled dead, icing on the Falcons, and I was coasting toward the bench when I looked up at the stands. He was three rows back from the glass, arms crossed, watching me like he'd never left.
I don't remember the shoulder check. I remember looking at Joel, and then I was on my back with my helmet ringing and Malcorin skating away with a grin on his face.
The refs didn't call it. I'd had my head up when I should have had it down, which made it my own fault, which made it worse.
I got to my feet and skated to the bench. My ears were ringing and my shoulder throbbed where I'd hit the ice. Santos asked if I was okay, and I said I was fine, and I didn't look at the stands again because if I looked at Joel I was going to do something stupid.
Next shift, Malcorin lined up across from me at the faceoff.
He was still grinning. He'd caught me watching something else and put me on my ass for it, and he thought that made him special.
The puck dropped. I won the draw, sent it back to Hayes, and dropped my gloves.
Malcorin wasn't ready. His hands came up too late, and my first punch caught him on the ear, snapping his head sideways. Then we were both swinging, grabbing each other's jerseys, skates scraping for purchase on the ice as we tried to stay upright and keep hitting.
He was bigger than me. I kept swinging anyway.
I got three good shots in before he connected. His fist caught me across the mouth and I tasted copper, my lip splitting against my teeth. The linesmen were pulling us apart, and I was still trying to get at him, blood running down my chin, because the anger had nowhere else to go and I'd rather break my hand on Malcorin's face than think about Joel sitting in the stands watching me.
The ref pointed me to the box, and I went without arguing. Five minutes was worth it.
I sat there with my gloves off, pressing a towel to my lip while the blood soaked through. The cut was deep enough that it would need time to close. I ran my tongue over it and winced at the sting.
I didn't look at Joel. His attention pressed against me anyway, a specific pressure I'd learned to recognize even when I couldn't see him.
He'd watched me take hits before, that night he came to the game with his manager. He'd never seen me throw punches like I wanted to break someone's face open.
I pressed the towel harder against my lip and stared at the ice until the five minutes were up. We won 4-2. I got an assist on the third goal and didn't look at the stands once, which was a lie I told myself while I was doing it. I knew exactly where he was sitting the whole time. I just didn't let myself turn my head.
The locker room was loud after the win. Santos grabbed me in a headlock and called me a crazy bastard. Someone asked about going to Boxcar and I said I had to check on my dad, and the lie came out easy. I'd gotten good at lies.
I showered fast, kept my head down, and waved off the trainer when he offered to tape my lip. I didn't want anyone's hands on me right now. No, I wanted Joel’s hands, and that was worse.
I walked out to the player lot with my bag over my shoulder. The night was cold and clear, that sharp November dark that cut right through your jacket.
Joel was leaning against my truck.
My hands curled into fists at my sides before I could stop them. He'd vanished for weeks without a word, and now he was standing in my parking lot like nothing had happened, like he could just show up whenever he wanted and I'd be waiting.
I was too pissed to be careful. I walked straight toward him.
He watched me come, arms crossed, shoulders hunched against the cold.
"Get in the truck," I said when I was close enough.
"Nice fight." His eyes dropped to my mouth, to the split that was still swollen and dark. "I liked watching you bleed."
"Get in the fucking truck, Joel."
His jaw tightened. He pushed off from the tailgate and walked around to the passenger side without saying anything else.
We both got in. The cab was cold, my breath fogging in the air, and I didn't start the engine. I just sat there with my hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead at the empty lot.
