8. Rook
Chapter eight
Rook
The chill coming off the ice prickles my skin. Even though we’ve made it to the end of the second period and my body is well and truly warmed up, I can still feel its caress through my layers of protective equipment. Sitting on the bench waiting for my line, I use a cloth from behind the bench to wipe the ice off the visor on my helmet so I can see more clearly.
I glance up at the scoreboard, the clock counting down: five minutes left of the second, we are two goals up and looking good to enter the third with a decent lead. Marcus DuPont, the captain and first line center, stands in a circle with the other first line skaters deciding on the next play.
I hold my stick in my right hand, bracing my left against the boards, ready to jump once Coach signals it’s time for the defensive change-up. Dupont and the two other forwards jump the boards and race off to puck. The previous shift pushes back in through the door and collapses on the bench, grabbing drinks to hydrate as much as they can between shifts. I keep an eye out on the defensive pair, currently trying to make their way towards the bench while I also track the position of the puck and work out where I need to sprint to when it’s my time.
The pair gets closer, close enough, I think to myself. I tap Keppler, my partner, on the shoulder as I jump the boards and sprint to the right side of the offensive zone and he follows, taking up his position.
Dupont has done a good job driving the puck forward and into the offensive zone and it’s my job to make sure it stays there.
Rian James, our team’s right winger, is in a battle for the puck up against the boards with their defensive man. I bend forward in position, ready to catch the puck if it slides up the boards to the blue line.
Any second, I brace my stick. Dupont reaches between James and the Florida’s defense, chipping the puck out of the battle. It slides right to me, straight past Florida’s wing and easily onto my blade. With precision, I glide into position, readying myself for a powerful slap shot. The resounding crack of my stick meets the puck echoes across the ice.
The puck flies straight for our net. Our left-wing, Caprice, slides into the slot, blocking their goalie’s view of me, causing him to slide towards the left, leaving the top right of the net exposed.
The siren blares as the puck sails through, alerting the crowd of the goal. The sound is deafening. I slide on one knee, punching the ice. Yes, my second game for Chicago and I’m finally getting somewhere on the scoreboard and it feels amazing! Adrenaline courses through my veins as the boys skate up to me, Caprice smacking me on the back.
“Check out that clapper!” His thick Canadian accent comes through over the crowd’s cheers.
Following James and Dupont back to the bench, I notice James give a fist bump to the two women standing on the other side of the glass. The woman sitting on the left immediately catches my attention.
Long silver hair reaching well past her waist, sticks out of a black and red Hounds beanie. She’s rugged up in a hoodie and jeans, looking adorable even though she’s clearly freezing her ass off. My eyes can’t help but sweep the curve of her body before making their way up to her face. Fuck, she is breathtaking.
I just about trip trying to stare at her. It’s then I notice the small Asian girl with bright pink and purple hair: James’ wife. She gives me a knowing grin, clearly busting me checking out her friend. I give her a small nod and wave, letting her know that I know she caught me, and her smile only widens.
Shaking my head, I make my way back to the bench. I fist-bump my teammates on the ice and glide past the bench, giving high fives to everyone against the boards. Once again, glancing up at the scoreboard, my face flashes with the words GOAL underneath.
“Fuck yes!” Rian yells as we reset at center ice, Dupont winning the face off and sending the puck towards our offensive zone. A Florida player beats us to it and redirects it towards our defensive side. I take off, pumping my arms as fast as I can to beat the Florida center. When I reach out with my stick and attempt to knock the puck away, my stick lightly taps him on the side of his skate.
I see it coming before the whistle blows. The guy throws himself forward, all superman-like, and smacks into the ice. I shake my head. You have got to be fucking kidding me. The ref slides up next to me, patting me on the arm.
“Two minutes for tripping, Chicago number fifty-nine,” he announces over the arena speakers.
“You have got to be fucking joking. He tripped himself!” I yell. “I barely fucking touched him. Watch the fucking replay!” I get up in the ref’s face. Looking over, pointing with my stick at the Florida center, now standing by his team with a shit-eating smirk on his face. I try to push past the ref towards the asshole on the other side of the rink, but another ref comes to help push me back towards the box.
“Do your two, Wills. Don’t make me give you longer,” the first ref warns, and I push off, skating over to the penalty box.
The box official opens the door for me as I stamp through, ripping my helmet off and throwing it at the glass. It rebounds and lands on the floor at my feet. Thanks to me, Florida is now on a power play.
“Fuck this.” I drop onto the bench. I grab the drink on the shelf next to me, draining the entire bottle in one go. The dick who got me tossed in the box skates past and chirps something I can’t quite make out.
With a burst of anger, I fling the empty drink container at the door. I leap to my feet, my hands pounding on the closed door, creating a thunderous noise as the wall rattles. The official screams at me to sit back down and even though I know I’m being irrational, this guy picked the wrong day to fuck me off.
Thirty more seconds
I flick my hair back, the dark brown waves annoying me as they fall into my eyes. I slide my helmet on and grab my stick. When the clock hits fifteen seconds remaining, I stand waiting next to the door for the official to open it.
The second the door flies open, I’m out, jumping the step out of the box and charging the length of the ice. James and Dupont are stuck in a battle up against the boards. Flying in, I slam my side into the Florida player that was attempting to get the puck away from them. The guy drops to his knees and James grabs the puck, making a sprint for our goal, with the rest of us in hot pursuit.
He dumps the puck just before crossing the offensive line, pushing it into our side, narrowly avoiding being taken out by one of the Florida defense players. We all cross the blue line in time to watch the puck sail over the goal line and into the boards.
The whistle blows. Icing. Fuck.
We draw back to begin another face off. The second James knocks the puck out from under the Florida player, I glance up to see that motherfucker cross check Dupont in the back, causing him to fall forward onto his hands and knees. I scream out to the ref, but all their eyes are still watching the puck travel in the opposite direction. Fuck this, this guy has a fucking death wish today.
I race towards them, getting there just in time to see him pretend to stumble over Dupont’s body as he tries to get up, landing a second cross check higher up his back, practically on his neck. Dupont collapses back onto the ice, this time not getting up. Florida smiles as he climbs off him. One ref finally notices Dupont on the floor, but it’s too late. I’ve officially hit my fuckhead limit.
Throwing my stick down, dropping my gloves, I slide up next to him, gripping the front of his jersey and slamming my fist into his face. He stumbles backwards but remains standing. I swing again, but this time he sees me coming and gets a swing out towards my face.
My forward movement limits my reaction, so I end up taking most of the hit to my cheek but recover, tackling him to the ice. Knocking off his helmet, I continue my assault. Hit after hit, all I can see is red; not from his blood, but from the rage that burns like fire within me.
Whistles are blaring, but at this point I couldn’t care less.
He could’ve killed Dupont.
Fuck, at this rate, I might just kill him.
Arms grab me. I fight with all I can to stay on top of him. I’m not done. My rage still roars, hot in my veins. Whistles continue to shriek and shouts ring out around me, but I barely register any of it.
After God knows how long, I’m dragged off him. James and Kepler shove me back against the boards, well out of the way. I can see their mouths moving, but can’t make out anything they’re trying to say over the pounding of blood in my ears and the heaving in my chest.
Looking around, I spot Dupont being assisted by medics nearby, and the fucker that hurt him grips his face with blood gushing out.
The surrounding ice is stained red.
That’s all I can focus on: the blood everywhere.
Blood. So much blood. The floor splattered in it. My socks slipping as I attempt to run through to the kitchen, soaking in the warm liquid. Catching myself on the hall table, almost knocking over the photos and flowers that Mom brought home from the markets this morning.
“Mom!” I yell out, the small sound of muffled cries coming from the kitchen. Continuing my trek, attempting to avoid the puddles of blood as I move, but it doesn’t matter; my socks now leave foot shaped imprints wherever I step.
“Mom!” I scream.
No response.
Swinging into the kitchen, using the door frame for purchase, I come to a dead stop.
Feet.
Feet sticking out from under our little kitchen table.
Hands grip my arms, shaking me. Voices screaming in my face.
“Get the hell out of here, Wills. You’re done!”
I stare blankly at the ref as I blink to refocus my attention. Shaking my head, using my fists to rub at my eyes, stopping short when I realize they’re covered in blood.
The ref grabs my shoulder and pushes me towards the bench, and everything comes back to me in a rush.
Dupont getting cross checked.
That asshole’s stupid, smug face.
The fight.
Ejected.
I was being ejected.
Way to fuck shit up three games into a fresh team.
Coach grabs my arm, stopping me as I make my way past the bench, headed for the locker room.
“We will talk about this later.” His eyes remain locked on the ice before briefly shifting towards me.
I nod.
Entering the locker room, chuck my helmet at the nearest locker then collapse onto the bench. Running my fingers through my hair, I sigh and lower my head, overwhelmed with frustration.
One year. I can’t fuck this up. I have one year to prove to Seattle I’m worth it and stunts like tonight will just set me back.
The siren signaling the end of the period blasts through the barn and voices echo through the tunnel.
The team files back into the locker room for the second intermission. Coach storms in behind the team, talking with the assistant manager and GM. All three heads turn in my direction.
Coach barks my name and points towards his office, his order clear. Picking myself up, I’m stopped in my tracks by Rian James. He sits in the locker opposite mine and begins tapping his stick on the ground, a smile kicking up the left side of his face. Before I know it, I’m surrounded by the sound of sticks tapping in solidarity, my team having my back as I head towards the firing squad.
My lips threaten to tip up as I duck my head.
Maybe Chicago won’t be so bad after all.