Chapter 15 #2
I didn’t watch the replay. I wanted to know Peyton was all right, but I didn’t want to watch the slow-motion video of whatever had happened. Judging by the collective gasp that went up… No. No, I did not need to see that.
I took some slow, deep breaths as I skated, trying to calm myself the hell down.
Injuries happened all the time. Guys went down all the time.
This was just one of those things that came with hockey.
Sure, I always worried when it was one of my guys—hell, I worried when it was an opposing player—but this season…
fuck me. The second a Whiskey Rebel went down, I was a panicky mess on the brink of hyperventilating.
Get a grip, Caldwell. What the hell?
I had to get a grip. Had to pull it together. Nobody needed to see a player, never mind the team captain, falling apart just because someone got hurt.
You’re the captain, Calds.
Show the guys, the fans, and the damn cameras that you can handle this.
I could handle this. I’d handled it for years. Why couldn’t I calm myself down this time?
Right then, just like they had the night Eminem had gone down, the crowd started applauding and all the players started tapping their sticks. I turned, and sure enough, Peyton was slowly being helped to his feet.
He waved to the crowd, but he didn’t straighten all the way up. He stayed doubled over, and Davis and Trews each held one of his arms as they slowly led him off the ice.
Then he and Evan disappeared down the tunnel.
Now everyone was setting up again. Time to get back to hockey.
At least Coach called Davis and me back to the bench, sending out the third line in our place. Sitting there, still trying to get my head together, I watched Mix win the faceoff, and the action continued like normal.
Like goddamned normal.
While Peyton was back there. Being evaluated? Getting on an ambulance? What the hell?
I hated that, when an injured player disappeared and we all had to carry on like normal. It was too damn distracting. How bad was it? Was he on the way to the hospital? Or was someone just going to give him some ice and call it good?
Could someone please tell me before I had to concentrate on hockey again?
Maybe I should’ve watched the replay after all. Maybe I should’ve—
“Hey. Calds.” Davis bumped me with his shoulder. “You still here?”
I shook myself. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m, uh…” I exhaled. “Do you think Halls is okay?”
“I’m sure he is. He’s probably in a world of hurt, but he’ll be fine.”
I raised my eyebrows. He raised his.
Gesturing at the Jumbotron, he asked, “Didn’t you see the replay?”
“No, I…” I swallowed. “I didn’t see it.”
“Oh. Yeah, it was ugly.” He nodded toward someone on the ice. “That asshole Larsson hit him in the crotch.”
I reflexively pressed my legs together. “Shit.”
“I know, right?” Davis shuddered. “Dude better hope Halls is done for the night, or he’s going to get his ass beat.”
“Maybe he still should,” I growled.
Davis grunted.
I found Larsson on the ice again and tracked him as he tried for a scoring chance. Yeah, odds were good that he was getting a beatdown tonight. Since the refs hadn’t bothered to call a penalty—well, that was where the rest of us stepped in to police ourselves.
Before this game was over, someone in black and gold would make sure Larsson thought twice before hitting a man in a tender spot again.
“Calds.” Coach caught my arm just before I stepped into the locker room for the second intermission.
I halted. “Hmm?”
He glanced around to be sure we were alone. Then he inclined his head and looked me right in the eyes. “You’ve never been like this. I’ve seen you bounce right back and play after someone’s left in an ambulance, but lately, every time someone goes down…” His brows knitted. “What’s going on?”
I avoided his gaze, which wasn’t easy when it was boring into me like that. “I’m… I’m good. It just stresses me out, you know?”
“I know it does. But we have to be able to play through it, and you’ve never had a problem with that.”
I finally met his eyes, and the subtle softness in his brought a lump into my throat. He didn’t ask it out loud, but I heard it like the goal horn had just sounded:
Is this about Leif?
Christ. Everyone thought I was hanging by a thread because of that, didn’t they? And why shouldn’t they? After the way I fell apart at the home opener—yeah, I’d be questioning it too.
“I’m fine,” I insisted, ignoring the way my voice tried to crack. “I just—I feel a lot more responsibility for the guys now, you know?” I tapped the C on my chest.
Coach glanced at the letter, and his lips pulled tight. I didn’t think he believed me. I didn’t even know if I believed me. It was just the only explanation that made any sense.
He sighed. “I saw the way you were looking at Larsson during your shifts.” He shook his head. “Don’t, Calds. Just don’t.”
There was no point in playing stupid or arguing with him.
I knew what he was saying—do not get into a goddamned fight tonight.
Which… fair. Coach wasn’t one of the old-school coaches who liked a lot of fighting and physicality.
He wanted some grit, of course, but he was more focused on things like precision in offense and defense. Fights didn’t score points.
They could turn the tide sometimes and shift the team’s attitude. Shake up the crowd and give them a bloodthirsty vibe that could help drive us offensively.
But not every dirty play warranted a retaliatory fight, especially because the resulting penalty could be costly.
So… fine.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll… I won’t fight him.”
Coach nodded sharply. Then he tilted his head toward the locker room, dismissing me.
When I stepped into the room, I finally let go of a relieved breath.
Not only was Peyton upright and moving, he was pulling his gear back on. He wasn’t standing completely straight—there was a subtle hunch to his posture—but he clearly intended to return to the game.
I’d known he wasn’t seriously injured. Getting hit down south hurt like a motherfucker, but didn’t usually mean major damage. If I had to guess, he’d be sending a handwritten thank-you and an expensive bottle of wine to the company that manufactured his athletic cup.
I clomped over to his stall. “Hey. You really coming back next period?”
“Of course.” He met my gaze with a startled expression, as if he were surprised I was talking to him. Which… okay. Fine. But then he shook it off and flashed me a grin. “They’ll have to work harder than that to put me on the bench.”
Rolling with the this is fine, everything is fine vibe, I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t think I’d challenge them to do that harder.”
He winced, and I thought he shuddered. “Yeah. Fuck that.” He tugged at his sleeve. “But I want to beat them, and I want to score on them.”
Okay, yeah, that sounded like a hockey player. We all played through all kinds of injuries; as long as we weren’t bleeding everywhere or didn’t have a concussion, no one would stop us.
Though we all had our limits. I’d probably still be curled on the ice in a fetal position after an injury like that, but clearly Peyton was more angry and determined than anything. More power to him.
I clapped his shoulder gently. “Well, let’s get out there and get you that goal.”
He flashed me a lopsided grin that made my spine tingle, and he held up his fist. “Let’s do it.”
I bumped his fist, then went back to my own stall to cool off and hydrate. And maybe catch my breath from talking to him about something other than the things we were both avoiding talking about.
Was that hope I was feeling? Hope that maybe we could put that night behind us and act like teammates again?
God, please… Because I don’t know how to fix this otherwise, and I don’t know how to handle the awkwardness.
I’d roll with it for now. Act like everything was normal, interact with him like any other teammate, and see if he followed suit. Sometimes that was all it took, especially among guys who didn’t have a clue what else to do.
After intermission, we headed back out onto the ice.
Peyton was walking (and then skating) a touch gingerly, but he was holding his own. Probably best not to make him sprint more than necessary, though.
I skated up to Davis as we all warmed up again. “Hey. Let’s keep the breakaways to you and me.” I tipped my head toward Peyton. “Maybe not have him doing the longer sprints?”
Davis’s eyebrows shot up. Then he glanced toward Peyton and nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah, we can… That makes sense.” He turned to me again. “So you guys are cool now?”
I shrugged that away as if there’d never been any question. “We’re fine.”
He eyed me skeptically but didn’t push the issue.
Shortly after that, it was game on again, and I had to admit, it was probably just as well Coach had warned me off fighting Larsson. Because I really wanted to fight Larsson. Every time I so much as glimpsed his number, his name, or his stupid face, I saw red.
I was on thin ice with Coach, though. He didn’t like how much I’d been fighting lately, or how many penalties I’d been taking, and that conversation outside the locker room had been about more than just dispensing some justice on Larsson.
Fine. Fine.
I wouldn’t throw gloves with Larsson. I might check him. Maybe even risk a crosscheck just to get my point across. Absolutely chirp the shit out of him. One way or another, this game wasn’t ending without him knowing damn well he’d screwed up.
In the end, I didn’t lay a hand on Larsson.
Trews, however, checked him hard into the boards. Harder than necessary, yes, though not what I’d call dirty.
It pissed off Larsson something fierce, and he punched Trews.
The whistle blew before anyone could drop gloves. Larsson not only got a penalty, he got a double minor, since it was deemed unnecessary roughness. Maybe they thought the blood was enough to warrant the extra penalty. Maybe they were just as fed up with Larsson as the Whiskey Rebels were.
It was also possible they thought putting him in the box for four minutes would be enough to let us all simmer down enough that we didn’t kill him.
Either way, he was mad, Trews was fine, and we extended our 3-0 lead to 5-0. That last goal? A beautiful top shelf from Peyton, with an assist from Trews.
Perfect.