Chapter 18 Griffin
Griffin
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dom demands. Even though he’s skating by, staying in perpetual motion, behind the glare of the arena lights on his face shield, I can see true concern in his eyes.
Tonight’s game against the Torches is turning out to be an unexpected bloodbath.
All thanks to yours truly. I’ve gone from defending the right side of the ice and keeping the puck out of Howe’s zone to seeking out other players to wail on.
I need to slam into something, full body contact followed by a fistfight that’ll get all this pent-up anger out.
Anything that’ll make it stop, even if it’s for only a second.
“Done with this shit.”
The puck drops, action resumes, and I scope out my next target. They’ll never know what hit them.
Unfortunately, I know exactly what hit me. Penelope Lee.
It’s been four days since she walked out of my apartment.
The first day, I waited for Dominic to come beat the shit out of me.
When it didn’t happen, I slowly started to realize that Penny hadn’t told him anything.
I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.
Mostly, it’d just made me feel, and it was fucking awful.
A black eye or bruised rib would’ve been infinitely easier to deal with than the growing sense of betrayal and guilt.
That night I texted her, needing to make sure she was okay, but she didn’t respond, leaving me on read. I even tried asking about the ring, because I haven’t forgotten about that problem, but she didn’t reply to that either.
Walking in for introductions tonight, I immediately began searching for her.
For one too-brief and delusional moment, I held on to the ridiculously hopeful idea that she might chirp at me the way she did before the Vortex game.
Alternatively, at the other end of the old-fashioned spectrum, I expected things to be the way they were before, with her doling out easy smiles for everyone else and spite-filled glares for me.
Instead, she stayed deathly silent, not even letting her eyes land on me as I skated by.
She looked past me as if I wasn’t even there.
To be fair, I feel like a ghost of myself, a mere shell of a man, so I shouldn’t have been surprised by her non-reaction, but I was.
Especially since my heart had been pounding in my chest with excitement just from laying eyes on her.
And since the game started, I’ve done my best to tune her out. But it’s damn near impossible when there’s so much that I want to say. Well, not that much. Mostly just that I’m sorry.
I do a quick check of the cheerleaders. Penny’s up on the stage, just to the home side of the red line, her brown hair flipping around as she dances.
I want to watch her, to soak in every second of seeing her that I can get.
But the play moves toward our end of the ice, drawing my attention back where it should be.
The fury is instantaneous. I’m ready to plow into whomever I can, as hard as I can.
I’ll fuck them up, and I don’t give a shit if I get fucked up in the process too.
I’m mad at myself for getting distracted, I’m mad at losing a moment of watching Penny, I’m mad at . . . everything and everyone. Most of all, myself.
After the game, the locker room is full of celebratory shouts. Even Howe and Brody are hugging as they sway to some remixed, fake-twang version of “Take That Puck and Shove It.”
“You ain’t scoring here no more, don’t stand in my way as I’m shooting on your goal, so take that puck and shove it. You ain’t a winner here no more.”
Yeah, we won, knocking the division-leading Torches down in the rankings and guaranteeing our matchup in the first playoff round. I don’t feel like celebrating, though. I feel like bodychecking a few more guys.
“Honey! How’s your finger?” one of the sports medicine guys shouts.
I dislocated my right pinkie finger when it caught on Cavanaugh’s sweater during a scuffle.
It didn’t turn into a full fight because we couldn’t risk the fighting penalty in such a tight game, but getting your finger caught on someone’s gear and twisted out still sucks.
But I popped it back into place before the next play started and it’s fine.
Besides, I know the drill and have anti-inflammatories at home to take before bed tonight.
I hold my hand up in the air, curling and uncurling my hand.
It’s the closest to an exam he’s gonna get from me.
My bruised knuckles crunch like Rice Krispies cereal, but from across the room, the trainer can’t hear the gross noise.
He dips his chin and writes on his clipboard.
That’s what I am to him . . . a check mark on a list. A weapon to be aimed and fired.
And that’s what I’ll do again tomorrow night.
I’ll take on the Torches the same way I did tonight—mercilessly, with minimal regard for penalties or my own safety.
“Get dressed,” Dom says, suddenly right beside me.
Frowning, I hold my arms out, highlighting that I’ve literally got my pants on and my shirt is in my hand.
“You and me, we’re going out.” He doesn’t give me a chance to argue or refuse. Pointing a finger at my chest, he declares, “And that wasn’t a fucking question. We’ve got shit to discuss.”
Fuck.
Maybe Penny told him after all.
What are we doing here of all places?
If Dominic wants to have a man-to-man chat about my misdeeds with his sister—which I fully expect to involve more fists than words—I wouldn’t expect it to be at a golf driving range, but here we are.
I figured he’d lead me to his place or maybe mine if he’s feeling generous, so I could collapse into bed after he fucks my shit up.
I park beside him and get out, on high alert despite the unusual locale for a smackdown.
Inside, Dominic charms the hostess as she leads us to a bay far away from anyone else.
I roll my eyes when she tells Dom there’s no need to reserve the two bays on either side of us for additional privacy because they’re happy to give us the space as “special guests.” Part of that is a Hawks privilege, the other is that they’re only open for another hour so it’s unlikely they’ll get a rush of guests this late. Either way, it works in our favor.
The manager comes over before we’ve even settled into our seats.
“Hell of a game tonight, guys. We’re gonna do it again tomorrow, too, right?
” He smiles one of those fake customer service grins, making it seem like he’s a Hawk, too, and we’re all in this together, kumbaya-style.
If that’s the case, I’d like to see his knuckles.
I bet they’re not nearly as swollen and bruised as mine are.
“We can do anything you need. Just let me know. I’m Andrew.
” He points at his name tag like we’ll remember that.
I’ve already forgotten. His name doesn’t matter when I’m about to lose my best friend.
“Thanks,” Dom tells him. “Can the kitchen do something high protein for us? Whatever chicken or beef and rice type thing they can put together. We don’t care what it tastes like. It’s fuel to us.”
Andrew looks offended at the idea that something his kitchen staff would make wouldn’t be delicious. “How about a spin on breakfast tacos? It’s not on our late-night menu, but for you we’ll make it happen. Chicken, eggs, grilled peppers, roasted potatoes, guacamole, salsa on flour tortillas?”
“You can skip the tortillas. Just pile all that shit in a bowl, and we’ll be good.” Andrew nods like he’s making a mental note of Dominic’s order. “And water. Just bring us the biggest pitcher you’ve got. We’ve gotta rehydrate.”
While Dom handles the pleasantries with the manager, I sit there sullenly, wishing we could get this show on the road, because something tells me the manager isn’t going to be quite as accommodating when Dom and I start throwing punches.
When Andrew leaves us alone, I’m ready. Well, as ready as I’m going to be.
“What’s up?” I already know the answer to the question, but I figure I might as well open the door and let Dom in. I’m a shitty friend who’s broken his trust, but I’m willing to face the consequences for my actions head-on. I deserve every last one of them.
“What’s up? Are you serious, man?” Dom snaps, his public charm falling away.
“I saw you on the ice tonight. You were distracted as hell and violent as fuck. And before you argue that’s your job as enforcer, that is not what tonight was.
You were on a search and destroy mission, and whether the Torches will be feeling the effects of that or not, you were taking risks that should’ve gotten you kicked out of the game.
You’re damned lucky you didn’t end up on the injury list,” he says.
“The way you were going after the Torches? Normally I’d ask if one of them fucked your mom, or your sister, or wife, but since that’s not an issue, what the hell is? ”
He’s not yelling at me about Penny? But about the game? Okay, that’s also unexpected, but I don’t argue with him. There’s no point. He’s right.
My jammed-up finger wasn’t the worst of it tonight, just the most obvious injury since I popped it back into place on ice.
Hell, they showed the replay of me doing it on the jumbotron.
But getting my head bounced off the plexiglass during one of my little body checks will definitely have them hunting me down for another concussion check before tomorrow night’s game, even though I already passed one mid-game.
Not because I’m in real danger, but again, it’s a check mark on someone’s list. Is Mahoney safe to take another shot for the team? As if I’d ever say no.
“Nothing. Just playing.”