“You and me, we’re going out.” He doesn’t give me a chance to argue or refuse. Pointing a finger at my chest, he declares, “And that wasn’t a fucking question. We’ve got shit to discuss.”
Fuck.
Maybe Penny told him after all.
What are we doing here of all places?
If Dominic wants to have a man-to-man chat about my misdeeds with his sister—which I fully expect to involve more fists than words—I wouldn’t expect it to be at a golf driving range, but here we are. I figured he’d lead me to his place or maybe mine if he’s feeling generous, so I could collapse into bed after he fucks my shit up.
I park beside him and get out, on high alert despite the unusual locale for a smackdown.
Inside, Dominic charms the hostess as she leads us to a bay far away from anyone else. I roll my eyes when she tells Dom there’s no need to reserve the two bays on either side of us for additional privacy because they’re happy to give us the space as “special guests.” Part of that is a Hawks privilege, the other is that they’re only open for another hour so it’s unlikely they’ll get a rush of guests this late. Either way, it works in our favor.
The manager comes over before we’ve even settled into our seats. “Hell of a game tonight, guys. We’re gonna do it again tomorrow, too, right?” He smiles one of those fake customer service grins, making it seem like he’s a Hawk, too, and we’re all in this together, kumbaya-style. If that’s the case, I’d like to see his knuckles. I bet they’re not nearly as swollen and bruised as mine are. “We can do anything you need. Just let me know. I’m Andrew.” He points at his name tag like we’ll remember that.
I’ve already forgotten. His name doesn’t matter when I’m about to lose my best friend.
“Thanks,” Dom tells him. “Can the kitchen do something high protein for us? Whatever chicken or beef and rice type thing they can put together. We don’t care what it tastes like. It’s fuel to us.”
Andrew looks offended at the idea that something his kitchen staff would make wouldn’t be delicious. “How about a spin on breakfast tacos? It’s not on our late-night menu, but for you we’ll make it happen. Chicken, eggs, grilled peppers, roasted potatoes, guacamole, salsa on flour tortillas?”
“You can skip the tortillas. Just pile all that shit in a bowl, and we’ll be good.” Andrew nods like he’s making a mental note of Dominic’s order. “And water. Just bring us the biggest pitcher you’ve got. We’ve gotta rehydrate.”
While Dom handles the pleasantries with the manager, I sit there sullenly, wishing we could get this show on the road, because something tells me the manager isn’t going to be quite as accommodating when Dom and I start throwing punches.
When Andrew leaves us alone, I’m ready. Well, as ready as I’m going to be.
“What’s up?” I already know the answer to the question, but I figure I might as well open the door and let Dom in. I’m a shitty friend who’s broken his trust, but I’m willing to face the consequences for my actions head-on. I deserve every last one of them.
“What’s up? Are you serious, man?” Dom snaps, his public charm falling away. “I saw you on the ice tonight. You were distracted as hell and violent as fuck. And before you argue that’s your job as enforcer, that isnotwhat tonight was. You were on a search and destroy mission, and whether the Torches will be feeling the effects of that or not, you were taking risks that should’ve gotten you kicked out of the game. You’re damned lucky you didn’t end up on the injury list,” he says. “The way you were going after the Torches? Normally I’d ask if one of them fucked your mom, or your sister, or wife, but since that’s not an issue, what the hell is?”
He’s not yelling at me about Penny? But about the game? Okay, that’s also unexpected, but I don’t argue with him. There’s no point. He’s right.
My jammed-up finger wasn’t the worst of it tonight, just the most obvious injury since I popped it back into place on ice. Hell, they showed the replay of me doing it on the jumbotron. But getting my head bounced off the plexiglass during one of my little body checks will definitely have them hunting me down for another concussion check before tomorrow night’s game, even though I already passed onemid-game. Not because I’m in real danger, but again, it’s a check mark on someone’s list.Is Mahoney safe to take another shot for the team?As if I’d ever say no.
“Nothing. Just playing.”
“No, you weren’t. You were out there trying to destroy yourself. And I’m not gonna let that happen,” Dom declares, as if he alone can stop that from happening. “The season is too important for you to fall apart now, so whatever’s fucking up your mind, you need to let that shit go. Pull an Elsa outta your ass or whatever you gotta do. But let. It. Go. The team needs you. I need you.”
He’s right. Hockey is what I’m good at. It’s basically all I’m good for. I’ve got to focus on the season, on winning against the Torches again tomorrow and prepping for the playoffs. I can’t let my team down.
“You’re right,” I concede, still expecting him to pick up one of the golf clubs and knock me over the head with it. That would definitely have me sitting out on concussion-watch protocol.
“You need to hit something? Hit those.” Dominic points at the golf ball teed up in front of us.
Is that why he brought me here? To hit something, to unleash my anger in a healthy way? It sounds like it.
I’m not a golfer. I didn’t grow up with a father who took me to the country club to hit balls, and though I worked in school, it sure wasn’t as a caddie. But a club isn’t so different from a hockey stick, and a ball is like a small puck, so what the hell.
I get up, still hesitant to give Dom my back, considering the Penny situation, but I’m beginning to think she really hasn’t told him and this isn’t some ploy to get me to lower my guard so he can sneak in for a death blow.
I line up the shot and do a couple of practice swings, getting a feel for the club.Thwack!
The ball goes sailing through the air in a long arc, landing just shy of the back net. I bounce my shoulders, the controlled hit feeling good. It did release some of my anger.
“Feels good, huh? Do it again.” Dom sounds like Mr. Miyagi telling the Karate Kid to keep practicing.
I hit another ball, then another, and another. Each time I line up the shot, I take a deep breath, letting my focus center on the ball before swinging as hard as I can. I’m not going for precision, trying to get the ball into some tiny hole. I’m going for distance by hitting with as much power as I can generate.
