Chapter 2
DUSTIN
I felt myself leave my skates and crunch into the side board as Landon DeMarco, defenseman for D.C., slammed me from my blindside, taunting me as he did so.
When I found my balance, again, I was woozy for a few seconds, but quickly regained my focus. A little known fact is that the key to being the best in the NHL at giving hits is actually being good at taking hits. Because the more you’re going to dish out, the more you’re going to get.
After a hit like that, though, I was going to have to return the favor to DeMarco.
If you don’t start a fight, you’ve got to finish it.
That’s a little dictum I’ve always found useful to live by.
My teammate, Shane, recovered the puck and was speeding down the ice before he lost control of it and the puck sputtered the other way. The rest unfolded like it was in slow motion.
The action now on the other side of the ice, all of the referees somehow had their heads turned, and DeMarco noticed he would be able to get in a free hit. Which is why, no doubt, he zoomed straight for Shane as he spun around after losing the puck.
A full two seconds after he’d lost the puck, as Shane looked the other way, DeMarco pulled one of the dirtiest collisions I’ve seen in my life.
Shane left his feet, collided with the glass full on, and fell to the ice limply, possibly concussed or worse.
I fumed so hard my nostrils flared like a bull.
The Chicago home crowd went wild, booing and hooting and hollering at what had happened, but the refs didn’t see it, so they didn’t call anything.
DeMarco rounded behind the goal, while the action was on the other side of the rink, and he couldn’t see (and didn’t suspect) me skating at maximum speed toward his sorry ass.
I hit him so hard I was surprised his skates stayed on. He let out a yelp as I hit him with the full force I built up speed skating toward him.
I growled as I held him against the boards for a moment, then let go and saw his body slacken and fall to the ice.
Our home crowd cheered, and I whooped loudly as I circled back over to the puck.
The referees blew their whistles—clearly at me—but I didn’t care.
When the ice needed justice, I dished it out.
If there was one thing I hated in this world, it was people who tried to slide by like they were above the rules.
DeMarco was one of the worst offenders. He constantly looked for openings to take out or, even worse, injure other players.
So I didn’t give a flying fuck what the referees thought about my hit or the future repercussions.
I took my victory lap before I went to the penalty box, raising my stick in front of a cheering crowd.
Even if the refs didn’t see the play, the fans did.
It was one of the things I loved about playing in a sports city like Chicago.
They were an attentive bunch, drunk as they probably were in the stands.
But my spider sense tingled when I noticed a change in the crowd’s vibe, and I turned around to see DeMarco charging at me.
I threw down my stick and prepared for impact.
He busted into me, but I met him with equal force, and we backed off of each other and circled like a couple of wolves who wanted blood. He chucked down his gloves and helmet, and I did the same. We both knew what was going down.
He threw a punch, I blocked it and threw another one. The fight was on. We exchanged a few jabs, and he even landed one on my chin, which sent adrenaline rushing through my body.
DeMarco might be a cheater and a dirty player, but he was no chump of a fighter.
I growled as I dodged his attempt at a left hook, bobbing under it and landing a haymaker to his chin before he could react.
I connected.
He went down to his knees and tried to get back up.
The crowd jeered and booed as the refs came between us to break us up—and escort me off the ice. My coach facepalmed as I left the rink, raising the roof and smiling to a standing ovation from the crowd.
After the game, Coach Slanch called me into his office. “You really landed a hell of a left hook. Here,” he said, rewinding the tape and pinpointing the moment where I landed a fist on DeMarco’s face.
“Thanks, Coach,” I beamed.
“Dammit, LeBlanc, that’s sarcasm,” he quipped, slamming a hand on his desk. “I was notified you are now up for suspension.”
“What about DeMarco?” I protested. “He was the one who started it.”
“They generally don’t suspend the guys who get carted off the ice.”
I scoffed. “Not my fault he sucks at fighting. He started it. Plus, I guarantee he was milking it for the sympathy. I didn’t even hit him that hard.”
Coach Slanch clenched his jaw. “You truly don’t give a shit about this suspension, do you?”
I looked him in the eye. “Coach, I love this team more than anything in this world. You know that. I’ve been loyal to Chicago for eight years, during which time we haven’t even come close to a championship. It’s the middle of the season. I’ll be back in plenty of time for post-season domination.”
He pursed his lips and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper beard.
I continued. “I’m simply not going to let our teammates get concussed with no consequences.
Especially a youngster like Shane Hansen, who’s new to the team but is a sparkplug of a player.
He’s gotta know we have his back out there on the ice.
I’m not going to let DeMarco bully us like that and not pay for it, and the only way I can make him truly pay is the old-fashioned way. ”
“I hate that I agree with you,” Coach Slanch finally said.
“How long is the suspension anyway? A game or two?”
“Nine games,” Coach said somberly.
“Fuck,” I said, slamming my fist on his desk. “That’s harsh. That means I’ll be out of it for a few weeks. And for the All-Star game.”
“The commissioner is really trying to cut down on fighting this year. League image thing, blah blah blah.” Coach inched closer, leaning toward me.
“The suspension isn’t even what I’m worried about, LeBlanc.
It’s Old Man Bells. He’s gonna throw a shit fit over this.
He’s been on me about you lately, and I know for a fact this will push him over the edge.
I’m surprised my phone hasn’t rung yet.”
Old Man Bells was the ninety-two-year-old owner of the Chicago Tigers. He was very different from most old-school owner types, notably in that he hated fights on the ice. He thought hockey should just be about ‘putting the puck in the goal,’ as he liked to say.
Bells never played himself, and what he didn’t get about hockey was the fact that psychological dominance played a big role in determining the victor.
If you were skating scared around the ice because you thought an opposing player might blindside you into the board at any time and get away with it?
Well, you were going to act like prey on the ice. To win, you needed to be a predator.
“We won tonight, though,” I shrugged. “Wins are important to Old Bellsy, too.” I figured Coach Slanch was exaggerating. It was common for Jerry Bells to have some silly thing to say, even when we were in the best season in franchise history. The guy was never happy.
“We won because Murphy bailed your ass out with a goal in the last minute.”
“He wouldn’t have scored that goal if DeMarco had been out there continuing to terrorize us with his dirty play,” I countered. “So, no more haymakers that knock out the opposing team. Noted. Are we done here?”
Just then, the phone on Coach Slanch’s desk rang.
I stared at it for a moment, never used to the fact that Jerry Bells insisted on keeping land lines everywhere in our home stadium. I was half-surprised we didn’t use rotary phones.
Coach Slanch answered. “Coach Slanch . . . Hello, Sir . . . I know, it was inappropriate, won’t happen like that again . . . I’m having a talk with him . . .”
As I leaned back in my chair, twiddling my thumbs behind my head, I saw the blood rush out of Coach Slanch’s face. It turned stark white.
“No . . . no, no, no, that’s not necessary.
. . trust me. . . I’m talking to him. . .
he’s here. . .” His eyes widened, and he glanced at me.
He sounded like he was pleading, which worried me.
“Maybe we should think this one over, talk about it in the morning. . . no, Sir, I’m not questioning your authority, I just think. . . right . . . Buh bye.”
Coach Slanch held the phone in his hand and blinked a few times, looking at the picture of our team that hung over his desk. He’d been with the team for six years, and he and I had stuck with the Tigers through some grueling, awful rebuilding years, where we seemed unlikely to get a win at all.
This year was different, though. We had a good chance to win it all, and we both knew it.
“Daniel,” I said, seeing the seriousness in his face. His first name had just slipped out of my mouth. “What is it?”
“Old Man Bells. . .”
I scoffed. “It’s like ten P.M. Isn’t it past his bedtime?”
His eyes drifted up to me and cleared his throat. He looked pained. “He wants to trade you.”
My pulse raced. “Wants to? He wants a lot of things.”
“Let me rephrase that. He’s going to trade you.”
My heart sank down to my stomach. I cared about two things in this world more than my own life: my grandmother and this hockey team. My Mamaw raised me, and I’d loved this team since the day they’d drafted me in the last round and gave me a chance to work my way onto the starting lineup.
“But you told him he can’t, right?”
“You heard what I was saying. When Old Man Bells gets an idea in his head, he takes it to the extreme.”
“Still, this isn’t really going to happen, right? He’ll get over the fight tomorrow.”
“It’s not just about the fight. He saw some. . . Snapchat story you shared the other night.”
“How the hell does Bells have Snapchat?”
“His granddaughter showed him.”
“Jackie showed him?” I grimaced. His granddaughter had been taking more and more of an interest in the team’s dealings lately. “Fuck me sideways. What kind of world are we living in where we can’t snap our nights anymore?”
“I know, a horrible tragedy. Maybe you can just like, not post anything, anywhere, ever again. Kind of how we did when I was partying in the eighties.”
“Did you used to get down, Coach? I’m having a hard time picturing that.”
“Not the time, LeBlanc.”
“Sorry about that. No more posting. Anything else?”
Coach Slanch hesitated. His eyes drifted to a picture of the team from six years ago—his first year as head coach. I was the only player still left on the Tigers roster from that squad.
I stood up and put my palms on his desk. “Coach, you know I love this team. I’ll do anything it takes to keep what we have intact. I’ll light my hair on fire. I’ll take a salary cut. Anything. We’re winning it this year.”
He cracked a slight smile, which made me worry. “He did mention two other things.”
“Hit me.”
“Number one, get more involved with Chicago charities.”
“Easy. That’s all I’ll do besides train with the team during my suspension. What’s the second?”
He paused and folded his hands on the desk. “Get. A. Nice. Girlfriend.”
My shoulders sagged. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where in my contract does it say you can control my dating life?”
Shaking his head, Coach Slanch shrugged, then flipped his palms out. “You say you’ll do anything. Well, that’s what Bells was thinking about it. It’s some kind of symbol for him of your instability. After your wild Snapchat night with that girl that went viral—”
“Snapchat is done! And that wasn’t a girl, that was two girls! And they are just friends.”
Coach Slanch gave me a dirty look.
“Mostly just friends,” I added. “Look, I’m deleting Snapchat right now.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and uninstalled it, showing him. “Gone! Now how do I get involved with the charity stuff?”
“Do you by chance have Jake Napleton’s number?”
Jake was a fellow Chicago sports star who played baseball. I’d met him the past year at a killer yacht party. We all ran in similar circles.
“I do. I’ll call him up.”
There was a knock on the door. “Sir, time for your post-game interview,” a young woman with a clipboard said to Coach Slanch.
“Thank you,” he said and rose from his desk.
As we left, he leaned into my ear, grabbed my shoulder, and whispered: “For the love of God, LeBlanc, do something good for the world during your suspension. I want to see a positive story about you—for once. Do not—I repeat, do not—get yourself into trouble again.”
“I told, you, I will.”
“Good. Get serious. Goddamnit, If we don’t finish this season together, Dustin. . .” He cleared his throat. “Remember what we talked about here. And make it happen.”
“Charities. Girlfriend. Got it.”
“I know you won’t let me down,” he said as he headed out the door to his interview.
As soon as I was in my Range Rover, I called up Jake.
“Buddy,” he said after two rings. “Nice fighting tonight. Keep that up you’ll give me a run for my money as the most feared fighter on a sports team in this town.”
“Thanks, man. But I’m into a bit of trouble because of it actually. Old Man Bells—”
“He’s not fossilized by now?”
I laughed. “I have a feeling he’ll live forever as a hologram, or maybe one of those Futurama-style heads in a jar. Thing is, I need some good PR right now. I know you run some charity stuff, so I wanted to reach out about that.”
“You called at the right time. This weekend we’ve got the annual Vegas Fundraiser.”
My eyes lit up. “Vegas, eh? How can I participate?”
“I’ll send you a link with the details. It’s this event called the Cancer Sucks Conference. We do some jersey signing for the kids, give some speeches, it’s a good time. And it’s for the kids, you know?”
I heard a baby babbling in the background.
“Look man, I have to go,” Jake said. “I’m glad to see you’re jumping in on this. I know what it’s like to have the media turn on you. Anyway, daddy duties are calling me. See you there.”
I hung up and texted Coach Slanch immediately.
Dustin: Vegas, Baby!
Slanch: What?
Dustin: I’m doing a Cancer fundraiser in Vegas
Slanch: Dear God. Vegas? Really? No.
Dustin: What’s wrong with Vegas?
Slanch: I told you to stay OUT of trouble, not seek it
Dustin: I’ll be good
Slanch: You better. This shit is serious.
Dustin: I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?
At that moment, Slanch sent me a link to a story that had just come out on GritFeedNews and had been shared over a thousand times.
Dustin LeBlanc: League’s Worst Womanizer or Thug?
Slanch: Famous last words. I’m serious. Best fucking behavior starting now until the championship. No Vegas wedding or any shit like that
Dustin: Best Behavior. Yes.
Famous last words.