DUSTIN
I feltmyself leave my skates and crunch into the side board as Landon DeMarco, defenseman for D.C., slammed me from my blindside, taunting me as he did so.
When I found my balance, again, I was woozy for a few seconds, but quickly regained my focus. A little known fact is that the key to being the best in the NHL atgivinghits is actually being good attakinghits. Because the more you’re going to dish out, the more you’re going to get.
After a hit like that, though, I was going to have to return the favor to DeMarco.
If you don’t start a fight, you’ve got to finish it.
That’s a little dictum I’ve always found useful to live by.
My teammate, Shane, recovered the puck and was speeding down the ice before he lost control of it and the puck sputtered the other way. The rest unfolded like it was in slow motion.
The action now on the other side of the ice, all of the referees somehow had their heads turned, and DeMarco noticed he would be able to get in a free hit. Which is why, no doubt, he zoomed straight for Shane as he spun around after losing the puck.
A full two seconds after he’d lost the puck, as Shane looked the other way, DeMarco pulled one of the dirtiest collisions I’ve seen in my life.
Shane left his feet, collided with the glass full on, and fell to the ice limply, possibly concussed or worse.
I fumed so hard my nostrils flared like a bull.
The Chicago home crowd went wild, booing and hooting and hollering at what had happened, but the refs didn’t see it, so they didn’t call anything.
DeMarco rounded behind the goal, while the action was on the other side of the rink, and he couldn’t see (and didn’t suspect) me skating at maximum speed toward his sorry ass.
I hit him so hard I was surprised his skates stayed on. He let out a yelp as I hit him with the full force I built up speed skating toward him.
I growled as I held him against the boards for a moment, then let go and saw his body slacken and fall to the ice.
Our home crowd cheered, and I whooped loudly as I circled back over to the puck. The referees blew their whistles—clearly at me—but I didn’t care. When the ice needed justice, I dished it out. If there was one thing I hated in this world, it was people who tried to slide by like they were above the rules. DeMarco was one of the worst offenders. He constantly looked for openings to take out or, even worse, injure other players. So I didn’t give a flying fuck what the referees thought about my hit or the future repercussions. I took my victory lap before I went to the penalty box, raising my stick in front of a cheering crowd.
Even if the refs didn’t see the play, the fans did. It was one of the things I loved about playing in a sports city like Chicago. They were an attentive bunch, drunk as they probably were in the stands. But my spider sense tingled when I noticed a change in the crowd’s vibe, and I turned around to see DeMarco charging at me.
I threw down my stick and prepared for impact.
He busted into me, but I met him with equal force, and we backed off of each other and circled like a couple of wolves who wanted blood. He chucked down his gloves and helmet, and I did the same. We both knew what was going down.
He threw a punch, I blocked it and threw another one. The fight was on. We exchanged a few jabs, and he even landed one on my chin, which sent adrenaline rushing through my body.
DeMarco might be a cheater and a dirty player, but he was no chump of a fighter.
I growled as I dodged his attempt at a left hook, bobbing under it and landing a haymaker to his chin before he could react.
I connected.
He went down to his knees and tried to get back up.
The crowd jeered and booed as the refs came between us to break us up—and escort me off the ice. My coach facepalmed as I left the rink, raising the roof and smiling to a standing ovation from the crowd.
After the game, Coach Slanch called me into his office. “You really landed a hell of a left hook. Here,” he said, rewinding the tape and pinpointing the moment where I landed a fist on DeMarco’s face.
“Thanks, Coach,” I beamed.
“Dammit, LeBlanc, that’s sarcasm,” he quipped, slamming a hand on his desk. “I was notified you are now up for suspension.”
“What about DeMarco?” I protested. “He was the one who started it.”
“They generally don’t suspend the guys who get carted off the ice.”
