Page 41 of Cherry Picking

Even that feels good, getting robbed on a night the legs are finally there. Then Detroit answers with a long, grueling shift in our end that has Duval standing on his head. The crowd is up the whole time, letting out a low, sustained roar.

The horn ends the second even, both benches skating off, jawing at each other the whole way to the tunnel.

The tie holds well into the third. Chances are trading both ways, the building is at a full-blown roar, and it’s clear someone’s going to crack.

It’s them.

There’s a whistle for an icing, and I go out for the defensive zone draw. One of their fourth-liners lines up beside me, thick through the shoulders, leaning on the top of his stick like we’ve got all night.

“Heard about your brother,” he says. “Real shame.”

I don’t bite. I’ve heard the whole rotation this month. Prayers up, so young—all delivered with the same solemn cadence.

He waits until the linesman turns to get the puck, then leans in close enough that I catch stale gum on his breath. “Heard you two weren’t even on speaking terms. Buried him, and you hadn’t said a word in, what, years?” He offers a little smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Pretty fucked-up.”

The building goes far away, the noise of eighteen thousand people fading into static.

He knew it would land. That’s the whole job, and he’s already got a glove off before I’ve turned to face him, because he came out here for this, and we both know it.

Mine are gone a half second later.

I get his jersey in my left hand, and I hit him three times, and the third one is the one that lands right. I hear the crack before I feel it. He’s still throwing, catching me high on the cheek, and then his legs go, and we’re down on the ice together with my fist cocked back and nowhere left to put it.

He’s turtled underneath me. I stay there over him, breathing like a horse, wanting it more than I’ve wanted anything in weeks.

Then Augie’s arms come around my chest from behind and haul me off.

“Enough, Maxie. That’s enough.”

Whistles are blowing. My helmet’s gone somewhere. There’s blood on my knuckles, and I couldn’t tell you whose. The linesmen have the other guy up on his skates, and he’s yelling something at me over their shoulders, and I want to go through both of them to get to it.

The ref skates at me with his arm already up, pointing toward the tunnel. I don’t need the script. Game misconduct. Done.

I skate for the exit with the crowd screaming, and then the heavy double doors close it down to a dull, muffled roar.

The equipment room off the visitors’ hall is empty this time of night. Racks of sticks, a wall of tape, and no one in it. I put my back to the cold cinder block and mean to just breathe.

It doesn’t work like that.

The weight of it comes up from somewhere under the rage, fast, and I can’t seem to get in front of it. Ziggy is gone. We never fixed it. I buried my brother after two years of silence, and now the silence will last the rest of my life.

My face is wet before I understand it’s happening.

Then it takes me all at once. I go down the wall to the floor in my gear. I didn’t cry at the service. Didn’t cry at the headstone. Haven’t since I was a kid, really. Now it’s all of it, out of order and out of my hands.

I’m coming undone, heaving, my forehead pressed against the rough leather of my bloody glove. My shoulders won’t settle. Every intake of air snags halfway down.

I lose track of the minutes on that cold floor. All I register is the crushing weight of it, a sensation that feels like drowning with a jagged, horrible edge of relief.

Soft footsteps land on the ground, then echo down the hallway.

I use a handful of jersey to scrub the wetness from my skin, dragging myself back onto my blades just as the equipment kid clears the turn.

He slows down, his gaze scanning me. “You doing alright, Maxie?”

I reach for a roll of tape, bracing myself.

“Yeah,” I say, “just perfect.”