I don't know exactly what this guy's problem is, and I'm not even too bothered that he wants to knock me around and call me silly names. I can only hope he ends up getting himself stuck in the penalty box.
I shove him away and at first, I think he's going to let up, then he's right back there, his expression ugly as he drawls, "Guess that means I'll just have to fuck your wife later."
I don't fucking think so.
I grab onto his head with both hands, yanking him forward as I spit out, "Don't ever talk about my wife."
For a brief moment I think Adam’s going to back down, and we won’t end up in a knockdown fight. But then his eyes narrow, his expression turns ugly, "Maybe if she takes it from a real man next time she won't lo?—“
I head-butt him directly in the face.
He falls back slightly, and I grab into him, yanking him forward as I head-butt him again, this time making contact with his nose. Tossing my gloves to the ice, I square off, get a good grip on him, intent on making the slew of penalties I’m gonna rack up count.
I hold onto his jersey with one hand, pummeling him with the other, wanting to keep him upright as long as possible. His helmet goes flying and then the weight of him falling pulls me down to the ice on top of him. I go to hit him again, but he’s down for real, turning away from me, obviously attempting to escape.
Dave falls in beside me as I work to push back the white-hot fury pulsing through my veins. “Did you hear what he said?"
Dave nods. "Yeah, pissed me off we couldn’t help you kick his ass.”
I relax slightly at his words. Glance over his shoulder at where Adam is getting up from the ice. He’ll serve his penalty and then likely have to go see a medic, so I take some comfort in that.
I glance over at Coach who's standing in his normal spot, his arms crossed over his chest. But for once he doesn't look mad, he looks more vindicated.
Someone hands me my helmet and my gloves. Someone else hands me my stick and then Dave says, “Guess I’ll leave you to your punishment.”
I make a face, not at all sorry I have to miss the rest of the game because of that douche bag. I don’t even care I’m likely to get a handful of other penalties because that fucker asked for it.
I look at my teammates and say, "Kick their fucking asses," and then I turn and skate off toward the penalty box where I toss my stick and gloves on the ground and kick my helmet for good measure.
Then I sit with a huff, annoyed my hand hurts, but at least I can see Cassidy from here. She's looking slightly perturbed, and I can only hope she never finds out what that piece of shit said to me. I’ll never understand what drives people to cruelty, how they would intentionally twist a knife in an already open wound. I guess it's a good thing that he did it on the ice, where the only repercussion I get for kicking the shit out of him are decided by the league.
I sit back, resigned to watching the rest of the game from this stupid ass box. They're still putting up random pictures of me as a child and still making old man jokes even though I'm not even on the ice. I look back to Cassidy to find her watching me. I grin, she winks, so I press my palm over my heart and then point to her.
Her smile turns salacious, and her hands come up in front of her, one of them forming that circle that has me glaring at her intentionally. I mouth, "Stop that," and she drops her hands and laughs. Then she makes it like she's thinking about how she feels for me, so I glare, cross my arms over my chest, put my nose in the air.
It still amazes me how quickly things can change. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that at my age I would ever feel the urge to be silly. But here I am, playing a weird mime game with my wife from the penalty box.
The horn sounds again, startling me. I look up to find I've missed the entire end of the game, though I'm relieved to see that we won. Finally released from the box, I skate over to my teammates and it's then I realize that the number of victories I have left to celebrate are limited.
I pat some of the guys on the back but don't waste too much time before I'm headed off the ice toward the locker room. Dave appears next to me, giving me a nudge with his elbow. "You good, man?"
I nod and then with a small sigh I reply, "I am. I'm more than good."
Dave says nothing as we continue on our way, so after a moment I turn and look at him to find him staring at me with a strange expression on his face. "What?"
He shakes his head and says, "You're done, aren't you?"
Now I shake my head, my brows raising as I say, "Done with what?"
He laughs as if he's just now coming to this big revelation. "With hockey. You're fucking done with hockey."
His statement catches me off guard and it takes me a minute to respond. I stop just outside the locker room door, my eyes meeting his as I say, “Well, you know, if I have to choose betweenbeing forced out or leaving on my own terms, I'm always going to pick my own terms."
He nods, his hand now resting on my upper arm. "But it was a hell of a ride, wasn't it?"
I smile, throwing an arm over his shoulder as I turn us toward the locker room doors. "Fucking right it was."
We don't say anything else about it, each of us going about our own post-game rituals. I get a quick shower, throwing on some comfortable clothes and then pulling on the clean jersey someone left for me for the post-game press.
