I hated losing to the Thunder more than to any other team. They knocked us out of the playoffs last year in a seven-game battle that turned dirty fast. Their assistant captain, Jude Braddock, was the kind of player I hated. He dove and embellished and he would constantly cross-check and hook me, and once he even punched me in the kidney when the refs weren’t looking. But the one time I dropped my gloves to fight him, he skated away like a bitch. On top of ending our playoff run, the Thunder went on to win the Cup last year and are in contention this year to do it again. So yeah, I hate them and I hated losing to them.
“How’s the eye?” Avery asks me as he pulls off the Under Armor shirt he wears beneath his jersey. He stares down at me, concerned.
I shrug like it’s no big deal but as my fingers reach up and trace the two-inch cut slicing through my eyebrow, it’s hard to hide my wince. I fought Duncan Darby near the end of the third when it was clear we weren’t going to come back from this. Duncan is actually a pretty nice guy. I’ve met him at league events over the years. But I was frustrated and he was battling with me in the corner for the puck and the guy is a fucking giant and it was like a massive redheaded meat blanket hanging all over me, and I just snapped. When he managed to get the puck I cross-checked him in the back—hard. He turned around, called me a fucktard and shoved me and I immediately dropped the gloves. Unlike his douche teammate Braddock, Duncan Darby dropped his right back.
I’m an enforcer. There’s no two ways about it. I have been since I played in juniors back home in Quebec. But what makes me valuable is I also score. A lot. I was the highest scoring defenseman in the league my rookie year. Still, I won’t give up the fighting. It’s as much a part of my game as anything else. I’m usually smart about it, though. I fight when I have to and I pick my partners carefully—other enforcers, not the stars, and guys who ask for it. But Darby didn’t really ask for it and he’s not an enforcer. He’s also not in my weight class. I’m six feet and two hundred pounds of muscle, which is nothing to laugh at. But Duncan Darby is six four and probably has about twenty-five more pounds on him.
I got him twice with a decent left hook. He got me once, a solid punch just above my left eye, and my skin split instantly. The refs broke us up, and I spent the end of the period in the medical room. Stitches are a real bitch when they don’t use the freezing.
“It’s starting to swell,” Avery comments. “Better get some ice. It’ll help.”
“What’s going to help Chooch?” I mutter under my breath.
“He’s having a rough end to the season,” Avery replies. It’s the same answer he would give the media. Always politically correct and diplomatic. Drives me fucking nuts. “But he’ll bounce back. Playoffs are a fresh start. A different energy.”
I give him a hard stare. I would love to raise my eyebrows to show how much I think that’s horseshit, but it would hurt too much. Avery’s dark eyes glance around the locker room. The media has cleared out. It’s just the players now, half of whom are in the shower room. Chooch is sitting—and sulking—across the large oval room by his locker.
“This is about what’s happening off the ice,” I explain quietly. “And if he doesn’t figure out that shit fast, we’re going to be knocked out in four games in the first round.”
Avery grimaces, grunts in begrudging agreement. “So fix this.”
“Me?” I question.
“I don’t do this relationship crap. It’s all you do. So fix it,” Avery commands and heads to the showers.
“Merde,” I whisper and sigh. Jordan walks back in, hair dripping wet and a towel around his waist, and starts to dress beside me.
“You up for a drink?” I ask him as he shakes out his hair like a wet dog. Drops of water smack me in the face.
“Sure. Why the fuck not.”
I stand up and walk to the showers. As I pass Chooch I tell him, “We’re going for drinks. Don’t even try to argue. We’re going.”
Chooch doesn’t speak at all except to suggest Liberty. I don’t argue, even though that means I’ll have to see Audrey, which will remind me of Shay. I need to figure out what the hell went wrong between us. Why does she despise hockey players so much that she’s willing to deny our connection? If Chooch wasn’t in such a dark place, I would ditch him and Jordan and drive over to her work and demand answers, but there’ll be time for that later. Mike Choochinsky’s love life derailing our entire team is more urgent, unfortunately.
Twenty minutes later Jordan parks half a block from the bar, and we walk in silence down the dark, stormy street. It seems Seattle is about to have its first spring storm. The wind is strong, blowing trash and leaves around our ankles in angry little tornados. Luckily the rain is holding off because I didn’t bring a jacket other than my suit jacket. Jordan pulls open the door to the bar, and Chooch and I push our way inside. It’s busy and loud. I would have picked somewhere quieter, but this is what Chooch wanted.
Jordan, being the tallest of all of us by an inch or two, surveys the room and then points to a table near the back. We weave our way through the crowd and as we pass the bar Audrey looks up, her red lips parting in a surprised smile. I give her a smile and a wave but keep heading to the table. This is about Chooch. Damn it.
“Name your poison, Choochie,” Jordan says, slipping out of his heather gray suit jacket and dropping it on his chair as he begins to roll up his sleeves.
“Bourbon. Double. Short glass. No ice.”
Chooch doesn’t drink hard stuff, so I start to raise my eyebrow at that and then wince. Fucking Darby. Jordan glances over at me. “And you, Rocky?”
“Ha-ha,” I reply dryly and shrug out of my own jacket. “Just a Stella.”
He nods and starts to weave his way to the bar. I turn back to Chooch. His bushy eyebrows are knitted together and there are heavy lines through his freckled forehead. Chooch looks like the kid on the oldMadcomic books, if he’d grown up and become a hockey goalie. I push my glasses up on my nose—I had to take out my contacts as soon as I was hit in case my eye swelled up—and I place both arms on the table and lean toward him.
“Talk to me, Michael,” I say softly but firmly. I only use players’ real names when I’m dead serious. Otherwise it’s Jordy or Chooch or Westwood. Or Shithead or Fucknuts, depending on my mood.
“I shit the bed.” He gives me a little shrug. “Bad game. It won’t happen again. If it does I’ll bench myself and give the job to Owensen.”
“But why did you have a shit game?” I push and watch him trace the wood grain pattern on the table with his finger.
“Off night.”
“But why?” I am not going to give this up, so he better just tell me the truth.
