Page 116 of Hard to Get

“Why didn’t you go off?” Bish demands. “We had ninety seconds left! I had the fucking puck!”

“Don’t fucking tell me how to play my game!” Frosty yells back. “As if you have room to talk. What the fuck was that turnover right in front of me? Jesus Christ.”

The air in the room is blue from their cursing. Also thick and uncomfortable.

“Shut up, guys,” I say. “That’s not helping.”

“Yeah?” Bish glares at me. “What do you think is gonna help, then? Tell us.”

I glare back at him. “Get a grip, man.” Probably not the right thing to say. I take a breath. “Emotions are high right now. Let’s all go home and cool off and talk about this tomorrow.”

The other guys all nod and mumble agreement. Bish undresses with violent movements, practically hurling his gear at the equipment guys.

“Hey,” I say to him with a jerk of my chin. “They don’t deserve to have you taking your temper out on them.”

Bish’s face is red and set. But he calms down a little.

I can’t stand this. I shower in a hurry and get dressed to leave. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut. Maybe I made things worse. Bish is probably pissed at me now. That’s all we need is him feuding with two players.

Something has to happen. I’m going to have to talk to Bish. Or to Coach. Or maybe we all do. I don’t know. This sucks.

“Coach is pissed,” LG says to me on our way out.

“At who?” I grimace. “Probably all of us.”

“I think Bish is in for some heat.”

“Good.” I shake my head. Maybe I won’t have to go to Coach after all. I really don’t want to. I don’t want to be labeled a “problem” like what happened in junior hockey. Except… there’ve been other things I’ve kept quiet about since then, and I’ve always beat myself up about not saying anything.

The culture of hockey, part of the “code,” is to fit in, get along, don’t stand out. I paid a price for not doing that years ago and since then, I’ve tried to follow the code. But maybe there are times you just have to stand up.

Fuck.

I was in a shitty enough mood before this after what happened last night with Stella. Also, my foot still hurts.

“Want to get a beer?” I ask my buddy.

He slants me a quizzical look. “Sure.”

“Let’s get away from this area. How about Ziggy’s?” I name a place in Gastown not far from here.

We drive there separately. The place is a dark dive bar with worn floors and wooden picnic tables and benches to sit on. On a Sunday night, it’s not too busy so we find a table at the back and order a couple of draft beers.

“You want to talk about the game?” LG shakes his head. “Tabernak.”

“I’m sick of talking about it. What the fuck.” I rest my head in my hand.

“It’s not easy being on a losing team. But there are good things that can come of it. It builds confidence, and creates a stronger connection with our teammates.”

He says it with a straight face and I stare at him for about three second before we both crack up laughing.

“What bullshit,” I say.

“I understand. It’s hard when our teammates don’t give a shit.”

“Yeah. Like why should I block a shot and risk getting injured when no one else cares enough to even try?”

“I know. We can only control ourselves, though. We need to focus on improving ourselves. Making ourselves better.”