Chapter 29
Twenty-nine
Sebastian
Tucker isn't in a lower bowl seat, so there’s no risk of seeing him from the bench or right against the glass this game, which means I can focus a little better. I take the time we have before the game starts to pull Westy aside.
“Dumont, I have a question for the team Frenchy.”
“Oh, so my French is welcome now, eh?” he says, smiling and elbowing me before squirting water in his mouth.
“What does fifs mean?” I ask.
He chokes on the water, coughing and bending forward to spit onto the ice when he finally gets his breathing under control. “Where’d you hear that?” he asks, his face uncharacteristically angry.
“Benoit said it after I kissed Tucker. He said some other stuff I didn’t catch, but that was the last thing, and then he spit, so I figured it was insulting.”
“That motherfucker is just as bad as he was in junior hockey,” he growls, looking over his shoulder at the Montreal bench where Benoit is talking to his teammates. “He’s always been the worst kind of asshole.”
“Yeah, that’s easy enough to figure out, but what does it mean?” I ask, grabbing Westy’s shoulder and turning his attention back to me. He’s agitated and angrier than I’ve ever seen him.
“It’s a nasty French-Canadian slur that’s irredeemable. He called you fags, with homophobic contempt. I want to rip his head off.”
That does it.
“Boys, circle up,” I call, getting the attention of the team near us on the bench and those on the ice.
When they skate closer, I look around and make a decision to bring them in on this.
“Benoit called me a fag at the puck drop for kissing Tucker. I’d like to give him a warm Southern welcome and show him that kind of language isn’t tolerated down here in Atlanta.
Keep it clean, but make it clear we don't stand for homophobia in our house.”
Heads whip toward the visitors' bench, and grumbles are heard, but I know they all got the message and will do just that.
“Nobody talks about my captain like that,” Rook says, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Only we get to give you shit for macking on your boy toy in front of everyone, you big slut.”
“Seriously, Cap, keep it in your pants already. No one wants to watch you shove your tongue down his throat, no matter how in love you are,” Campbell adds.
“I can't believe you two agreed on something,” Ryder says, looking between Rook and Campbell. “This is going to be a good game. Team up for once and give Montreal hell instead of each other.”
“Shut it, Kingsy,” Campbell growls, skating away.
“He’s just grumpy because I didn't throw anything at him before the game, so his pre-game rituals are off. It’ll fuck with him even more than actually fucking with him.
How’s that for some critical thinking, eh?
” Rook says, grinning evilly and tapping his helmet, before he skates after Campbell to take his place on the ice.
I shake my head at their ongoing rivalry and follow.
The game is an absolute bloodbath. The boys are targeting Benoit as expected, slamming him into the boards regularly.
Our big defensemen, Rook and Campbell, as the team enforcer, are the worst, finding every opportunity to hit him whenever he crosses the red line with the puck.
Even the forwards like Chad and Mercer are getting their hits in every shift he’s on the ice.
I see them chirping Benoit with every hit and know they’re fucking with him.
From what I’ve caught, they’re telling him he’s only homophobic because he secretly hates himself, or only good boys are treated well when on their knees, and he’ll have to pick himself up because he doesn't deserve a hand.
The refs are calling some of it, but most are clean hits, which is frustrating the Montreal team even more.
Even the coach is screaming at the refs about the targeted abuse.
To add insult to injury, we’re scoring relentlessly.
Ryder has been on fire, stopping every shot on goal, talking shit from the crease to any of the forwards who manage to spend any time past the blue line.
We’re playing aggressively, proving our point each period that we’re the better team in how we play and as people, and keeping Montreal from putting any points on the board while we’ve racked up six.
This last goal made it a hat trick for me, and the game is stopped as hats start raining down on the ice.
I celebrate with my teammates, the boys crowding me in a hug against the glass.
I skate off the ice with a sense of jubilation, knowing that our performance is an even better punishment for Benoit’s homophobia.
I watch from the bench as Davy hip-checks Benoit into the boards, spit flying from his mouth, before Davy races away, clearing the puck from our defensive zone.
Benoit shakes it off and is slower to skate back past the red line.
It gives me grim satisfaction to know that this homophobic piece of shit is learning that our team values a person beyond their sexuality and is willing to make someone pay for their immature insults.
Coach Kennedy calls for a line change, and I’m hopping off the bench and back onto the ice, ready for battle. I set up for another face-off against Benoit, with Westy and Chad flanking me.
“I thought this cocksucker was the only fif, but it looks like your whole team takes after him,” Benoit says in heavily accented English, nodding his head at Westy.
“Being gay must be contagious if he brought the sickness down here. It’s good the league has you chiens quarantined all on the same team, eh? ”
What the fuck? Is he just messing with Westy, or is Westy actually gay?
“Mon tabarnak, m'a tu t'l'a décalisser ta gran' yeule!” Westy shouts, surging toward Benoit. I slam my arm into Westy’s chest to keep him from attacking Benoit. We don't need him in the penalty box with less than five minutes left in the game.
The ref blows his whistle and moves back. “Calm the fuck down and reset, or I’ll have you replaced. Fucking hell, let’s go, boys.” He moves back to talk to the lineman as we move in agitation.
“That’s right. Hold your dog back, Montenegro. Woof woof woof,” Benoit says, barking at us and laughing. “We know you like that dog dick.”
I glare, wanting to deck the guy even more as Westy struggles against my hold to get to Benoit.
“Crisse de calice de tabarnak d'esti de sacrament de trou viarge,” Westy growls, spitting at Benoit’s feet.
“Easy, Dumont. He’s not worth it. He just wants to fuck with us. Don't let anything he says have any merit, because it doesn't. He’s bitter that we’re so far ahead and we’re going to win. So let’s fucking do that, got it?” I say.
Westy’s cheeks are bright red from anger or embarrassment, and his eyes are furious, but he lets me push him back as a muscle tics in his jaw. “Fucking hate that guy,” he mutters through clenched teeth.
“Clearly,” I grunt as I make sure he stays where he’s supposed to. “We only have a few minutes left of this fucking game. Keep it together.” I’m saying it for myself as much as him. I have to lead by example
A squeal of pain has me turning back to see Chad looking far too innocent as Benoit doubles over, clutching his nuts. I give Chad a what now look.
He shrugs and smiles. “If this piggy here thinks we’re all hard up for his junk, I figured I’d give him a test drive.
Turns out he’s not the model for me. I like ‘em prettier and without a ballsack. I mean, the guy’s name is Benoit, for fuck’s sake.
It screams balls. If anyone should be embracing his gay side, it’s him. ”
Fucking Chad. Leave it to him to hit the guy in the nuts with his stick when the ref wasn’t looking.
Benoit is furious as he straightens and switches out with another player to take the face-off.
We still win it, and I send the puck back to Rook, who passes to Campbell as Westy, Chad, and I get set for a pass up the ice.
Chad takes the pass and slides around the back of the Montreal net, taking his defenseman shadow along for the ride before he shoots the puck my way.
I make contact and look for an opening as I skate toward the net.
Instead of a shot on the net, I get hit broadside with a sharp elbow to my ribs and go flying onto the ice.
God fucking dammit! I look around as I breathe through the discomfort of the fall, though it’s not nearly as bad as some hits I’ve taken.
It was Benoit, of fucking course. He and another Montreal player attempt to turn and race back down the ice.
I’m scrambling to my knees to give chase because they’re picking up speed, and my defensemen are too far forward to give the back half of the ice the coverage it needs.
But they don't get far. Westy’s right there, face set in wild rage, skating at top speed and effectively becoming a wall as he slams into Benoit. The collision is heard above the din of the crowd.
The clash of their two big bodies is a classic lesson in physics.
It’s a startlingly quick display of velocity and motion, and the utter destruction that occurs when Westy’s acceleration and mass are greater than Benoit’s.
Newton’s Laws of Motion have never looked so gruesome as they do right now in the slow-motion crunch that occurs when Benoit’s body is launched back into the boards, his head and neck connecting with the lip right where the plexiglass sits.
Benoit goes down in a heap, unmoving. It takes a moment for the cheering crowd to realize this isn't like the rest of the aggressive game, but an actual injury.
An eerie hush falls over the arena.
I look from Benoit’s inert form to Westy, catching his horror-stricken face as realization settles over him. I skate to him with dread heavy in my soul, turning him away as the Montreal med staff rush onto the ice to assess Benoit.
“I-I fucking k-killed him,” Westy stutters, his voice hollow as he tries to look back at the group gathered on the ice.
I wrap my arm around his shoulders so he has to look forward and push him toward the bench. “You didn’t kill him. He was breathing,” I assure him.
I can’t say much more for sure, but Westy doesn't need to know that. He’s a sensitive guy and not usually a fighter or one to get physical during games.
Tonight was unique for most of the team as we worked to prove a point.
Besides, Westy seems to have skeletons in his own closet and plenty of old wounds with the Montreal captain that were a little too close to the surface with what he was saying.
“He’s not moving,” Westy says, turning back as we get to the bench where the rest of the team is congregated, talking in hushed tones.
I move in front of him so he can't watch what’s happening. This is the last thing any player needs to see after a hard hit. It’s part of the game, and a possibility anytime two large men crash into each other. Still, it sucks seeing anyone hurt from something you had a part in.
The refs are reviewing the game footage on iPads, probably to ensure it was a clean hit.
I saw it myself. Benoit had the puck. Westy hit him in the chest, coming straight on.
It was clean by all the standard rules. But they’re likely deciding what kind of penalty is warranted, given the severity of the injury that resulted.
And if that’s the case, where was the call on Benoit for the hit he gave me before his own?
I didn't hear any whistles for elbowing and charging.
“I fucked him up,” Westy mutters, still sounding distant and unlike himself. “I didn't mean to. But I wanted to.”
I turn to Westy and put my hands on his shoulders, pulling from every bit of dad wisdom I can to try to navigate this tricky situation.
“This was an accident,” I say with slow conviction.
“You didn’t mean to hurt him.” Our hot breaths come out in visible puffs against the chilly air as we both breathe quickly.
“I wanted to hurt him so badly,” he whispers, looking down and rubbing at his face with his glove. I can't tell if he’s sniffling from tears, the cold, or adrenaline.
“You're not the kind of guy who wishes hurt on someone, Westy. Even if you’re pissed as hell and hate the guy, you still wouldn't want that to happen,” I say with confidence. I know Westy well enough to give him that.
“I was so mad, and look what happened,” he says, gesturing with his chin behind me. I turn and watch as Benoit is carried off the ice on a stretcher by EMTs.
I look back at the bench and make eye contact with Coach Kennedy. He gives me an assessing look and cuts his eyes at Westy in question. I shake my head no and tilt it at the stretcher that’s leaving the ice.
“Dumont, Montenegro, off the ice. Virtanen, Bischoff, you’re in,” Coach calls, putting the rookies in for us. That’s not just a line change, that’s a replacement for the last three minutes of the game.
I push Westy onto the bench and give him a bottle of electrolytes. He holds it without looking at it. I’m worried about the dude. He’s usually the heart of the team, and he looks broken. I really feel for the guy. I know this will eat at him long after the game ends.
Thankfully, the rest of the game is uneventful, though the mood is far more sombre in the arena. We win, but it’s not as sweet as it would have been before Benoit was injured.
As soon as I’m back in Tucker’s arms after the game, my thoughts are solely on my man.
I hold him extra tightly tonight, thankful we’ve overcome our own nightmares.
But I hate that Westy’s are just beginning.
Our after-game celebration at The Hideout is rowdy for most of the boys on the team.
While Tucker holds me against his broad chest, I keep an eye on Westy as he drinks a little too much.
Rook is watching, too, and we both seem to be intercepting drinks meant for Westy, knowing he’s not in a great headspace, and alcohol will just make it worse.
When I’m too buzzed to be much use, Rook takes over and sends me home with Tucker, who has been my rock all evening.
He’s so fucking hot, with his strong arms that hold me up as we walk to his truck and slide me inside like I’m not two hundred pounds of lean muscle.
The way he handles everything around him with capable ease is such a turn-on.
He’s never needed me to take on his burdens or added to my weighty struggles.
Instead, he’s helped to shift the balance, so he’s holding my burdens, helping me carry the load so it’s not as heavy anymore.
He’s even won over my parents, with Ma falling just as hard for him as I have because he asks her to be a part of our lives and makes her feel needed and welcome.
When we get home, I’m going to fuck him until he knows how beautiful and amazing I find him. That’s the plan.
Except I fall asleep on the ride home.