5. Dimitri
5
DIMITRI
W hen I hear my name called over the speakers, I skate out onto the ice, only to be met by a roar of boos and verbal abuse from the crowd. We are the visiting team so it’s to be expected.
I know some of the guys on my team hate the introductions at away games, but I can’t keep the grin off my face. This is one of my favorite parts of the game, aside from playing it, of course. I’m sort of known as a bad boy. Everyone expects me to play rough so I don’t need to worry about winning the crowd over—they already hate me on principle.
The drive to New York from Boston is approximately four hours. We usually have a pretty good turnout of hometown fans that make the journey, and there is a scattering of New Yorkers that have the balls to be Boston fans. Meet and greets are always hit or miss at away games. Those along with press conferences take up time afterwards. I’m hoping to catch Liv’s first guest spot on the postgame show. They record it during the press conferences.
Depending on how the four of us play today, she might even mention one of us specifically on the show, and after watching her commentary for the Minnesota Mad Dogs over the past few years, it might be fun to hear what she thinks of me.
That isn’t the reason I want to catch the show, though.
The guys and I are going to watch it for the same reason we watched her press conferences and guest spots when she was in the AHL—to support our best friend’s sister and her career.
Connor’s elbow in my ribs alerts me to the fact that everyone has their hands over their hearts except me. How did I miss the announcement for the National Anthem?
That’s it. No more thinking about Liv. You’ve got a game to win.
After the anthem, we get into our positions, and I become one with the ice.
The puck drops with a clack.
A guy is headed straight toward me or maybe I’m headed straight toward him. Either way, we collide hard enough for my teeth to rattle in my skull. We’re a mess of sticks, elbows, and shoulders in our fight for the puck.
Adrenaline is a hell of a drug and motivator.
Number 44 clocks me in the nose with his elbow, and I almost lose the puck.
Almost.
The feel of the blood from my nose dripping onto my lips is exactly the match I needed to light this powder keg. My fist collides with his face making it easy for me to take the puck from him.
There’s no whistle from the ref announcing the penalties so I’m assuming our face hits canceled each other out.
A blur of color to my left tells me that Max is there waiting for me to pass. My stick hits the puck with a slap and it goes flying over to him. He’s racing up the ice, Connor and Aiden flanking him.
So begins the battle up and down the ice for control of the puck.
Number 44 tries to start shit with me a few more times, but now that I know his tricks, I’m able to deal with him more efficiently.
I manage to steal the puck from him four times in a row before they swap him out for another right winger, Number 7. This dude has enforcer written all over him.
All that fuss over little old me? How flattering.
The cheers from the crowd become a deafening roar as soon as his skates touch the ice and I’m pretty sure he growls at me when he skates past.
This is going to be fun.
He’s fast, that’s for sure. I start sweating trying to keep up with him but keep up with him I do.
I am a problem, and I’m going to make damn sure he thoroughly understands that by the end of the game. Any time he comes into my defensive zone or my teammates’, I’m underfoot.
I get so close to him at times that I can smell the cheap cologne that he bathed himself in this morning.
Every time I duck a punch or trip him up, he gets angrier and angrier, which is exactly what I want. His anger causes him to play sloppily, making my job ten times easier.
My sole focus becomes agitating this man. If I can get him to hit me, not only do I get to fight him, but there’s a good chance he lands in the penalty box.
You’ll end up there too, moron.
Yeah, but he’ll be there longer if he instigates it. Well worth it.
Exasperated, the rational part of my brain stomps off and locks itself in its room.
By the time we hit the third period, I’m pretty sure number 44 wants to murder me and spit on my grave.
Fuck, I love this game.
Eight minutes left. The score’s 2–1 in our favor. If they score, that’s possible overtime. If we score, this will be our last game playing them in the regular season until the Stanley Cup Finals, if they make it that far.
Everyone is on edge. I’m pretty sure I even catch Max throwing a few elbows.
I spy number 7 racing toward the goal as far across the ice from me as possible.
Coward.
Things are moving too quickly for me to get over there but I try anyway. He blows past Randy, sending the poor kid flying into the boards.
He passes it to his center to make the shot and…
Yes!
Jimmy blocks it like a champ.
Not so smug now, are you, number 7?
I give him the universal sign for blow me, which in hindsight was a fantastically stupid and immature move, even for me. I swear he gives me the exact same look my mother used to.
He barrels over to me no longer caring about the puck or what kind of penalties he causes on his way.
The closest ref is waving his hands frantically and blowing so hard into his whistle that he’s red in the face, but number 7 doesn’t care. I’m not sure he even hears them with the amount of crazy I see flashing in his eyes.
He’s big and unhinged, and some hockey players would be shitting themselves if he was coming after them.
Not me.
I can’t keep the grin off my face. I have been itching for this fight the entire game.
I slide out of the way at the last second, and he slams into the boards with a sickening thud.
Why move out of the way? You wanted to fight him, remember?
Yeah, but if I engage, it wouldn’t look like I was trying to avoid the fight and I’d end up in the penalty box.
It takes him a few seconds to peel himself off the boards and come after me again, and it’s like it’s all in slow motion.
His elbow digs into my sternum so hard it’s almost as if I’m not wearing pads at all. That’s when time decides to speed up again. We’re a blur of fists and elbows, our sticks, helmets, and gloves long forgotten on the ice.
The pain is blinding but I refuse to back down. Fighting is one of the only times I feel completely alive. I don’t care whether I win or lose—I relish every moment of it.
Suddenly, we’re like magnets with the same polarity, flying apart from each other. I feel a set of hands beneath my armpits and I realize I’m not moving under my own power anymore.
I turn my head and see Connor’s face. I grin. “Hey, buddy. Thanks for helping me out.”
“I swear on my skates, if you have a concussion, I’m going to kill you.”
“Don’t think so,” I say, pulling away to stand on my own. “Fairly sure this is pure euphoria.”
He groans, exasperated. “You need a fucking therapist.”
“That was therapy. Pretty sure the whole arena witnessed my session just now.”
“My point exactly.”
One of the refs grabs my shoulder.
Before he even opens his mouth, I say, “Five minutes?”
“You’re damn lucky it’s not a suspension,” he says sternly. “Now get off my ice.”
The sin bin is like my church. Every time I’m in the box, I end up contemplating my life choices.
When the doc comes and cleans me up—no stitches or super glue this time—I find myself in a Zen state. It’s almost like I’m hovering over the ice as I watch the last minutes of the game play out.
Connor manages to score in the last ten seconds, and I end up cheering so hard that my lip splits back open. Instead of going out and celebrating on the ice with my team, I’m getting patched up again by the team's very tiny, and very angry doctor.
At this point, I could parrot the lectures she always gives me right along with her, but I don’t. I respect her too much to sass, especially since I know she means well.
At least there’s a plus side to missing the last five minutes of the game. I’m definitely going to be featured in Liv’s post-game analysis tonight.
That pleasant thought carries me through the press conference, the meet-and-greets with fans, all the way to the spa tub in my hotel room.
I must have dozed off, because I’m woken up by pounding on my door. There’s only one person it could be, well, three, actually, but since we all seem to share a brain I think that still counts as one.
I throw a towel around my waist and open the door.
“Where’s Max?”
“Good evening to you too, Dimitri. I’m feeling pretty great. Thanks for asking,” Aiden says sarcastically, shouldering his way into my room.
“He got caught up with the coaches so I brought the takeout this time,” Connor says, holding up two bags. “Ordered from Rice and Roll since we liked it so much the last time we were here.”
“Sushi?” I laugh. “No wonder he’s pissy.”
“You would hate sushi too if your partner in college made you lie completely naked covered in the stuff for her final project,” Aiden grouses.
“You know good and well I got you a burger and fries, you uncultured swine,” Connor heckles.
“Snob.”
“A little, yeah,” he admits, making them both laugh.
Then he sets his sights on me. “Will you go put some clothes on so we can eat? We’re close, but we’re not naked-on-the-couch-eating-sushi close.”
I flip him the bird but do what he asks anyway.
By the time I get back, the food has been doled out, the post-game show blaring on the TV.
“And welcome back to Hockey Highlights on your favorite channel and mine, True Sports. I’m your host, Drew Parker, and joining me today is Pro Rink’s newest pro analyst, Olivia Winters.”
I know I see her every time I’m over at Max’s place, but seeing her all made up for the cameras hits me differently.
She is pulling out all the stops for this interview. Olivia is by turn charismatic, flirtatious, serious, zealous, and academic, and damn if she doesn’t nail it every time.
Jealousy burns in my chest every time she laughs at one of Drew’s stupid jokes, making me feel like I’m sixteen again and vying for her attention. The grumbled comments of my couch mates tell me I’m not alone in the feeling.
Never have I been more grateful that Max is tied up with the coaches. Wrangling the beast in my chest is hard enough without having to hide it from Olivia’s brother, who just happens to be one of my best friends.
“Our time is coming to an end, I’m afraid. Do you have any last thoughts to share with us?” Drew asks her.
“I do, actually. At my last job, I always liked to end my interviews with a fun fact about a player.”
Drew beams at the camera. “I do love a good fun fact, and I know our viewers at home do, too. Lay it on us.”
“I know that we all saw some pretty spectacular fights on the ice today, so in honor of that, my fun fact today is going to be about none other than our very own Russian Bear, Dimitri Volkov.”
“I’m on the edge of my seat.”
“We all know he loves a good scrap, but did you know that his time in the penalty box this season is nearly double the amount of all his teammates combined? We’re talking record-setting territory here, Drew.”
“He sounds like one hell of a defenseman.”
“Just think how much better he’d be if he spent more time on the ice instead of relaxing in the sin bin.” She laughs.
I sat through the flirting and the hamming it up for the camera but this? This is the last straw.