Chapter 86 I Have Feelings
i have feelings
Cal
We’re in the second period at home against New York.
Game tied, it’s been a violent, high-pressure battle since puck drop, with a whole lotta flared tempers, body checks, and on-ice smack talk.
New York’s left wing is a cocky, young kid named Bryce Barrymore.
He’s hockey royalty, the son of a legendary defenseman.
Just eighteen, he went straight from high school to the pros and into a multi-million-dollar starting slot like me.
He’s a sharpshooter but also a dirty player, from what I’ve seen tonight.
A decade and a half younger than Evan, he’s using it, moving quicker, pivoting with more grace.
His taunting doesn’t seem to be getting into our captain’s head, but his play certainly is.
Evan looks slow out there, especially after taking shot after shot against the glass from New York’s aggressive defensive players.
Having had enough, Evan takes a cheap shot at one of them, dragging his stick under the player’s skates as he tries to whiz by with the puck.
As the defenseman goes down, Bryce Barrymore comes barreling in, smashing Evan against the glass where they get into a punching match, Evan’s helmet going first, then Bryce’s.
I can hear Evan call him “Little Lord Fauntleroy,” to which Bryce spits in Evan’s face.
The crowd is cheering this whole debacle on as the refs try to get in the middle of a growing group of players, now all fighting one another.
It takes seven whole minutes to clear out the brawl, a bunch of first-string players heading to the penalty box as the second string comes out, mad as a bunch of hornets and not showing any sign that they’ll play a peaceful period.
We finish second period at a tie, Coach trying to keep his cool while lecturing everyone on playing with dignity.
We head out to the third period. First string still has time on the box, so second string lines up as the buzzer starts play.
The first two minutes are back to normal play, tempers in check, but when we score, something changes.
The penalties come off the board, and our first string start to sub back in, amping up the energy, grudge matches playing out in snide comments and needless checks.
Bryce Barrymore, returned to the game, comes barreling at me several times, taking several fast, sharp shots that I stop easily. After the fourth, he bares his teeth at me, hissing like some wild animal. All I can do is roll my eyes behind my mask, watching the puck as it moves across the ice.
With just under three minutes to go, we score again when Viktor rails a beauty of a snapshot top shelf into their net. The big Russian doesn’t score a ton of goals as an enforcer, but when he does, like tonight, it’s especially timely.
Moments later, a fight nearly breaks out to my right, Bryce Barrymore manages to get through the melee with the puck, flying down the ice at a wickedly fast speed.
Dangerous speed.
Is this fucker gonna slow it down?
He does not.
Rushing at me unchecked, wearing a shit-eating wolf’s grin on his face, the ignorant fool body blasts himself into my net.
And me.
I know how to stop a puck, but a full-grown man hell-bent on beating the shit out of everyone on our team?
Not so likely.
I get shoved into the back of my net, the whole arena erupting into a chorus of boos. It’s patently uncool to check or hit a goalie, of which Barrymore is fully aware. So even for a cocky rookie, it’s a complete shock getting blasted in my own net. In my own fucking house.
This kid has a death wish.
Rattled and stunned down on the ice, I try to push back up to my feet, but there’s no space for me to manage it before a violent scrum has formed all around me.
My teammates coming for Barrymore was a given; they’re gonna want to spill some blood on my behalf.
I can only make out Tyler, Viktor, and hothead Mikhail raging to get at him.
The rest are a blur of bodies in a melee exploding out from the blue paint and beyond.
I hold out a padded arm to block myself from the blows being thrown in the fight, but Barrymore shoots out his elbow, knocking my helmet off my head.
The last thing I see is that feral grin of his…and his fist.
I come to slowly, first with an antiseptic smell in my nostrils. I move my fingers and they feel swollen. As I open my eyes, my vision takes a moment to clear, but only in one eye. I reach up slowly, feeling a bandage over my left eye, the eye that took a straight punch from a rookie’s fist.
Sitting up too quickly, my head spins, and I lean over and vomit onto the floor. It’s just a bit of water, but it still feels wretched coming up.
A nurse appears. “You’ve got a nice concussion,” she says. “Might not want to move too quickly.”
I groan in response, lying back, hands on my stomach as I will my head to stop spinning. When I feel like I can speak, I ask, “My eye? How can I play with only one eye?”
“I’m just here to check your vitals,” she answers as she takes my temperature. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake. She can tell you more.”
I lie back, unsatisfied and unsettled, falling in and out of sleep for I don’t know how long. The next time I come to, Billie is there, at my side, holding my hand.
“Hey, handsome,” she says quietly.
“Mmm, beautiiiiful Biiiiillie.”
“How you feeling?” She gives me a soft laugh, probably at my silly greeting. I know I sound out of it, even to my ears.
“Been better.”
“I bet,” she says. “That was a real cheap shot.” Have I ever heard such anger in Billie’s voice? Is that for me?
“Hate that kid,” I say, gritting my teeth at the pain in my head.
“Don’t blame you. Hope he never gets to play again.”
We sit for a while. Long enough that I fall back asleep, only to wake with a jolt as she pats my leg. The doctor is here. She introduces herself and starts talking about a mild concussion and a detached retina—
What! A detached fucking retina!
My heart dropping like a stone in a pond, I start spouting off questions to the doctor—unintelligible, I’m sure—because she then asks Billie if they can speak in the hallway.
The minutes pass by like hours.
By the time Billie returns to my bedside, I’m moving into a full-blown panic state. “Hockey is my life. I can’t play with one eye.”
“Relax, champ,” she says soothingly. “You’re not going to lose your eye. Your retina is on the verge of detachment, but it’s not fully detached. They did some procedure on you, and right now you really just need to lie back and not stress it for a while.”
“Is she saying if I can play or not?”
“Ever? I think you can. Soon? Probably not. I’d guess you’re on concussion protocol anyway, for a few weeks.”
“Fuck,” I howl into the room.
“Hey, could be worse.”
“How could it be worse?”
“You could be told you’re not able to play again. This is just a few weeks.”
All I can do is growl, which makes her smile and shake her head at me.
“You’re a smarty, you could go back to MIT and get a fancy college degree. Go be a scientist.”
“I don’t want that. I want to play.”
“Well, I didn’t think I wanted to have my family involved in my career but here we are and it’s working out okay for now,” she says as she strokes her fingers through my hair, comforting me with her touch.
“You were at the game.” It’s not a question because I had no idea she’d be coming tonight.
“Yep. Came to watch you play. I used the tickets you always have for me at Will-Call but it was totally last minute so there was no chance to tell you I’d be there before puck drop.
I was having a fun time until you got hurt.
I met some nice people to hang out with…
Devon, team nutritionist, and Scarlett, Crush social media.
Oh, and a UNLV student, Zoya Kolochev, Tyler’s girlfriend?
She’s interested in an internship working with kids so maybe I can get her hooked up at the center.
Such a sweetheart, I think she’d be a good fit.
I need to talk to them anyway about taking a bit more time off. ”
Listening to her chatter about her time at the game takes my mind off the moment.
I’m glad she met some of the WAGs (wives and girlfriends) and made new friends.
Billie is easy like that. She can show up to a new place all alone and fit in with any group.
Something tells me I should ask why she needs to take more time off from her job, but my murky, injured brain sweeps it away.
I cringe, holding my head in my hands as a wave of pain nearly blinds me.
Billie calls for a nurse, who comes in to give me a dose of pain meds through my IV.
As the cool medicine flows into my veins, I relax, forgetting what we were talking about. Billie returns to combing her fingers softly through my hair again, comforting me with just her gentle touch. So kind and caring. And beautiful to look at.
I realize she’s asking me something, and I open my mouth to respond but quickly forget what her question was. She giggles and it sounds like bells.
“I have feelings…” I hear myself saying the words, but it feels like I’m standing outside of my body.
Billie laughs again. I like the sound of her laughing. I like being the one making her laugh. “Sometimes I think it would be nice to have a dog. Or a cat. Or a dog and a cat.”
“Well, pets take a lot of…” Billie’s answer fades out as I take in the sight of her pretty mouth. Her crazy, beautiful two-color hair. She’s so damn gorgeous.
“I think people think I’m a robot.”
“I doubt they think you’re a robot, Calum.”
“No, they think I don’t care, but I do have emotions, and sometimes I feel things, and I do care about people. I care about things. I could have a pet.”
“No one said you couldn’t take care of a pet. You’re really loopy right now, bud. Maybe you should take a breather? Take a nap?”
“Yeah, okay.” I say, taking her advice and closing my eyes.
Eye.
But then I remember something important. Something I don’t want to forget to tell her. I hope it comes out right when I say, “I like having you here with me. I wonder…if this is what love really feels like.”