I scoffed. “Not my fault he sucks at fighting. He started it. Plus, I guarantee he was milking it for the sympathy. I didn’t even hit him that hard.”
Coach Slanch clenched his jaw. “You truly don’t give a shit about this suspension, do you?”
I looked him in the eye. “Coach, I love this team more than anything in this world. You know that. I’ve been loyal to Chicago for eight years, during which time we haven’t even come close to a championship. It’s the middle of the season. I’ll be back in plenty of time for post-season domination.”
He pursed his lips and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper beard.
I continued. “I’m simply not going to let our teammates get concussed with no consequences. Especially a youngster like Shane Hansen, who’s new to the team but is a sparkplug of a player. He’s gotta know we have his back out there on the ice. I’m not going to let DeMarco bully us like that and not pay for it, and the only way I can make him truly pay is the old-fashioned way.”
“I hate that I agree with you,” Coach Slanch finally said.
“How long is the suspension anyway? A game or two?”
“Nine games,” Coach said somberly.
“Fuck,” I said, slamming my fist on his desk. “That’s harsh. That means I’ll be out of it for a few weeks. And for the All-Star game.”
“The commissioner is really trying to cut down on fighting this year. League image thing, blah blah blah.” Coach inched closer, leaning toward me. “The suspension isn’t even what I’m worried about, LeBlanc. It’s Old Man Bells. He’s gonna throw a shit fit over this. He’s been on me about you lately, and I know for a fact this will push him over the edge. I’m surprised my phone hasn’t rung yet.”
Old Man Bells was the ninety-two-year-old owner of the Chicago Tigers. He was very different from most old-school owner types, notably in that he hated fights on the ice. He thought hockey should just be about ‘putting the puck in the goal,’ as he liked to say.
Bells never played himself, and what he didn’t get about hockey was the fact that psychological dominance played a big role in determining the victor. If you were skating scared around the ice because you thought an opposing player might blindside you into the board at any time and get away with it? Well, you were going to act likepreyon the ice. To win, you needed to be apredator.
“We won tonight, though,” I shrugged. “Wins are important to Old Bellsy, too.” I figured Coach Slanch was exaggerating. It was common for Jerry Bells to have some silly thing to say, even when we were in the best season in franchise history. The guy was never happy.
“Wewonbecause Murphy bailed your ass out with a goal in the last minute.”
“He wouldn’t have scored that goal if DeMarco had been out there continuing to terrorize us with his dirty play,” I countered. “So, no more haymakers that knock out the opposing team. Noted. Are we done here?”
Just then, the phone on Coach Slanch’s desk rang.
I stared at it for a moment, never used to the fact that Jerry Bells insisted on keeping land lines everywhere in our home stadium. I was half-surprised we didn’t use rotary phones.
Coach Slanch answered. “Coach Slanch ... Hello, Sir ... I know, it was inappropriate, won’t happen like that again ... I’m having a talk with him ...”
As I leaned back in my chair, twiddling my thumbs behind my head, I saw the blood rush out of Coach Slanch’s face. It turned stark white.
“No ... no, no, no, that’s not necessary... trust me... I’mtalking to him... he’s here...” His eyes widened, and he glanced at me. He sounded like he was pleading, which worried me. “Maybe we should think this one over, talk about it in the morning... no, Sir, I’m not questioning your authority, I just think... right ... Buh bye.”
Coach Slanch held the phone in his hand and blinked a few times, looking at the picture of our team that hung over his desk. He’d been with the team for six years, and he and I had stuck with the Tigers through some grueling, awful rebuilding years, where we seemed unlikely to get a win at all.
This year was different, though. We had a good chance to win it all, and we both knew it.
“Daniel,” I said, seeing the seriousness in his face. His first name had just slipped out of my mouth. “What is it?”
“Old Man Bells. . .”
I scoffed. “It’s like ten P.M. Isn’t it past his bedtime?”
His eyes drifted up to me and cleared his throat. He looked pained. “He wants to trade you.”
My pulse raced. “Wantsto? He wants a lot of things.”
“Let me rephrase that. He’sgoing to trade you.”
My heart sank down to my stomach. I cared about two things in this world more than my own life: my grandmother and this hockey team. My Mamaw raised me, and I’d loved this team since the day they’d drafted me in the last round and gave me a chance to work my way onto the starting lineup.
“But you told him he can’t, right?”
