Chapter 3
PENN
Not to brag, but I wear the hell out of a suit. And today’s game day get-up is no exception: navy blue with a razor thin, barely visible pinstripe, paired with a crisp white shirt and a light blue tie that Fisher’s suit guy said “brought out my eyes.”
Yes, Fisher has a suit guy. Seemed like the douchiest thing in the world to me at first, but I’m now the proud owner of multiple suits bought from the same designer, which I guess means I have a suit guy now, too. How times have changed.
I stride into the Lions’ arena, my tailored suit making me walk with a little extra swagger. Fisher and Noah are by my side, both of them also looking dapper as hell, and cameras start to flash.
Fisher grins and winks like he’s a celebrity who was born on the red carpet. Noah gives a tight, close-lipped smile, barely keeping the irritation off his face.
I smile, because although I’m on edge today, I’m relatively at ease with the attention—not lapping it up like Fisher, not gritting my teeth and tolerating it like Noah.
To me, it’s still kind of a novelty. Another reminder that I’m really here, living a life I never dared to dream was even possible for a kid like me.
“You okay?” Noah asks me once we’re at the end of the hallway and in our dressing room. “You look a little tense.”
“Yup.” I set my bag down on a bench and look over at my Lions jersey hanging in my cubby. Number 82, turquoise with purple trim and a roaring golden lion on the front. The sight of it fuels my determination. “Just ready to kick some ass.”
I usually love game days. The adrenaline rush. The ear-piercing noise of the crowd. The high of chasing a win.
But facing off against the Sacramento Fire Cats is another story. In particular, facing off against one of them, who’s like the Ghost of Penn’s Past, always coming back to haunt me. As if reading my mind, Noah smirks and asks, “Itching to kick Chad-dick’s ass?”
“Hell, yes I am,” I say, remembering with pleasure how pissed that asshole was when we wiped the ice with them back in November. Immature as it is, nothing brings me more petty pleasure than beating that guy…reminding him which one of us is still the better player.
Fisher points a finger at me, smirking. “I find your little rivalry with Weatherby very interesting. I know you love a tussle, but one mention of that guy and you get your panties in quite the twist.”
“I like winning,” I say. “What’s so wrong with that?”
“Don’t bullshit me, Matthews. I’ve never seen you take as many penalties as you did in our last game against them. And they all involved Weatherby. What did he do, steal your girlfriend or something?”
“Yep,” I say bluntly.
Fisher’s eyes widen in shock at being right, and Noah—who already knows this story and me and Chadwick’s history—coughs out a laugh at Fisher’s expression.
“Puck. Sorry, man,” Fisher says. Never saying the F word—instead replacing it with puck—is one of our hockey superstitions.
It started years ago on Noah’s and my college hockey team, and the two of us carried it forward when we got drafted.
When we moved in with Fisher, he adopted it, too.
Sounds kinda stupid, I know, but dumb superstitions are just a part of hockey.
And pretty much all players respect them.
I shake my head. “It was a long time ago. High school drama that’s all water under the bridge now.”
“You’ve known him since high school?”
“Yeah. He was a dick back then, and he’s still a dick now, but honestly, I mostly can’t stand him these days because he’s a dirty player who makes up for his lack of talent with cheap shots when the refs aren’t looking.”
Noah nods in agreement. ‘Did you see that flop he used to draw a penalty against Raleigh last week?”
“Exactly. He’s an embarrassment to our sport, so I enjoy beating him.”
“Same.” Noah crosses his arms, and I smile at his support.
We’ve only been on a team with Fisher for a few months, but Noah played with me all through college, so he first got to witness Chadwick’s loathing of me when we played against his college in the Frozen Four tournament our freshman year.
I unzip my bag and reach in for my cell phone, but I don’t find it. I pat the pockets of my suit. “I must’ve left my phone in the car. Fishy, can I grab your keys?”
Fishy is the adorable nickname Noah’s nieces came up with for Fisher.
“Don’t wreck anything,” Fisher says solemnly as he passes me the fob to his precious G-Wagon he hauls us around in.
He always insists on driving and forbids us to eat or drink anything while we’re in the vehicle, which he gets waxed and detailed weekly.
I genuinely think he loves that thing more than he does any human.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply, rolling my eyes before I sprint out of the dressing room. I’ve only got a few minutes before Coach Anderson and Coach Slater show up to give their pregame pep talks, and everyone knows you never want to make grumpy Coach Anderson mad by being late.
I’m halfway down the hallway when I spot the devil himself…Chad-dick.
He’s got his back half turned to me, but I’d recognize that trademark slicked-back blond hair anywhere—he’s worn it like that since forever, and the stupid style has always made me gag, because he’s as greasy on the outside as he is on the inside.
I take a couple of steps, wondering if I should alert Chadwick to my presence and say something to rile him up a bit, or if I should save it for the ice later.
Heckling other players is part of the game, but Chadwick’s got a filthy mouth and a mean streak a mile wide. His idea of heckling is to go for my jugular. Vile insults about my family, or lack thereof…and what he did with my ex-girlfriend, in detail.
I know he’s trying to provoke me, and most of the time, I don’t let myself fall for it. These days, I’m smarter than when he first met me, and I prefer to get even by winning. Watching him lose is way more satisfying than throwing a punch or a return insult.
Decision made, I keep my head down and walk towards the door to the parking lot, but I’m not quick enough. He turns, and the second his stupid beady eyes land on me, he smirks.
“Matthews,” Chad-dick drawls. “I thought I could smell the stench of poverty lingering around here.”
He says it without missing a beat, as if he prepared the insult in advance—almost like he was out here skulking around in hopes he would see me so he could deliver it before the game. Which is actually a little romantic, when you think about all the effort he went to.
“Hello, Chadwick," I say with a broad smile, then look pointedly at the top of his head. “Hair’s gleaming and shiny as always, I see.”
“Shut up,” he sneers—because as I suspected, unless he’s pre-prepared it, he doesn’t have an inkling of a clever retort in him. “Or I’ll beat your ass later.”
“Oh, like you did last time?” I ask with another smile.
He glowers at me because we both know damn well that the last time I’m referring to, we were tied at two-two against the Fire Cats before Chad-dick took a two minute penalty near the end of the third for slashing.
He was lashing out to try and get a reaction out of me, but the ref spotted it and he ended up in the box.
One of our forwards, Sandine, scored during our resulting power play and won us the game.
“Watch your back,” Chadwick spits out. “You got lucky last time, but tonight, you’re going down.”
I clutch my chest in mock-terror before I shoot him a taunting grin. “Oooh, I’m quaking in my skates.”
And then, I’m officially bored and done with this conversation, so I turn around and walk off before he can think of something stupid to respond with. I feel his eyes boring daggers into my back all the way down the hallway, but I don’t really care.
Chadwick Weatherby can kiss my fine ass.
Two hours later, it’s one to zero, Fire Cats, and I’m sitting on the bench between shifts second guessing if it was a good idea to poke the bear before the game.
Chad-dick has been riding my ass from the moment my skates hit the ice earlier, and though I’m doing my best to ignore him, he’s making it almost impossible for me to get my head in the damn game and focus on defending my teammates.
We’re halfway through the second, and he’s been taunting me even more than usual, trying every trick in the book to draw a penalty when the refs aren’t looking.
When I jump over the boards for my next shift, he materializes by my side right away, grinning. “Hey Matthews, I’m bored. Got another girlfriend I can hook up with?”
A surge of rage coils through me, but I remind myself to channel that rage into my game.
I grit my teeth, ignoring Chadwick’s comment and instead focusing that rage into my legs, skating away from the bastard.
I keep my eyes honed on the puck, which my teammate Derek Carver snags from one of the Fire Cats’ forwards.
My anger propels me into action, skating up the ice towards the net, but Chad’s hot on my heels.
“I mean, I already have a girlfriend, but I’m always up for adding to my roster,” Chadwick says with a nasty leer.
I can't believe 2B downstairs ever went on a date with this guy. He's disgusting, and she's most definitely...not.
“Kind of like I did with Tori that night you were, how should we put it—” Chadwick goes on with a grating laugh “—unavailable?”
I bite down on my mouthguard, rolling my shoulders to calm myself. This guy really does not have a single original thought in his thick skull, I swear.
“Tori again?” I ask, forcing out a bored sigh as I watch Carver pass to Noah.
I dart sideways to make myself open. Chadwick moves next to me, and I add, “And here I was thinking you might have some new material after our conversation earlier. I was digging all your big man threats; they made a nice change up from your usual obsession with my ex from a million years ago.”
Chadwick smiles. “Fine, let's talk about your dad instead, then. How’s life in the slammer for him these days?”
“Piss off, Chad-dick,” I snarl, then take a deep breath. Remember everything I’ve practiced, and let his barb drive me instead of throwing my focus. I lean right with my shoulder, and as Chad echoes my movement, I lunge left, deking him out.
Noah still has the puck and no clear path to the net, but he immediately sees I’m open and snaps it to me.
The puck sails across the ice—a perfect pass—but before it's anywhere near making contact with my stick, Chadwick slams me into the boards from behind so hard that the air leaves my lungs.
“Oof,” I groan as the bone-jarring hit makes my whole body vibrate with pain. The refs blow their whistles—an obvious foul. I throw an elbow back at him, connecting with his chest as I spin around.
“What the hell?” I spit out. Chadwick laughs maniacally and then swings to hit me.
This time, though, I’m ready and brace myself, my glove coming out to block his right hook. Chadwick’s fist slams into my waiting hand, and the force makes both of us stumble and fall into the boards. He loses his balance and wipes out, pulling me down with him.
As I hit the cold sheet of ice below us, I’m expecting another immediate blow. Instead, Chadwick rolls sideways, groaning in pain as he clutches his right calf.
The refs arrive to break up the fight, and he takes a penalty, giving us a power play.
Unfortunately, we don't score during the two minutes, but Chadwick doesn’t come back out on the ice after. I see him talking to his coach, and a trainer, and then he leaves the bench and heads for the away team’s dressing room.
He probably just pulled something, but it’s good to see karma’s still a bitch.
Despite the swearing ban, I’m not actually as superstitious as a lot of my fellow players.
But I do believe what goes around comes around.
Or, at least, I try to look at the world that way.
It makes everything seem more manageable if there’s some kind of cosmic fairness at play in the world.
And tonight, Chadwick got what was coming to him.
For the rest of the game, I can finally breathe and enjoy the game, and we go on to win, two to one.
As the final whistle blows, I should feel elated, but instead, my karma senses are tingling again. We don’t play the Fire Cats again for a few weeks, but I have an unsettling feeling that this is not the last I’ll be seeing of Chad-dick Weatherby in the near future.