Chapter 21 #2
Knowing better than to look a gift horse in the mouth is what pushes me out of the locker room and over to the med area where I know the team dentist is stationed during the game just in case they’re needed.
Ya know I don’t think me needing a moment to have my Slayer in my arms is quite what they meant by needed but that doesn’t mean I can’t take full advantage of the open opportunity.
Lord knows I’ve missed her.
While keeping a bit of distance on the road wasn’t easy for me, it was necessary.
The plan wasn’t to silent treatment her into submission.
Like songs in the past two decades, that ain’t my style.
But I was tired of getting peppered.
Kinda like my time on the ice tonight.
The Friendsgiving fiasco acted like a buzzer at the end of a period, and I used our roadskies like a dry stall sesh.
Refresh.
Get some air.
Gain a bit of perspective.
Yeah, I spoke my peace, but I didn’t feel heard.
It was clear we were on some “When Doves Cry” shit.
Creating space allowed me to reprocess some of the things I said that maybe I shouldn’t have said so impulsively – blessin’ and a curse I swear – and it apparently let Gillybean mull over more than what jus’ left my mouth.
I’m grateful for that.
Was it hard not constantly textin’ her songs and pictures and video chattin’?
Hell yeah.
Was it for the best?
Without a doubt.
Pouring my extra focus back into game play and bonding with the boys – something that’s taken bit of a backup song to helpin’ raise Bronny and bein’ with Gilly – was good for me.
Each night I played were shutouts.
And each day were bud outs.
I dragged them to local coffee shops – something I do love about road games – let them drag me to random hobby stores – who is into what is still somewhat surprising – mom and pop restaurants – Wahl really can fucking eat – and spent whatever time was left training both physically and visually.
Reviewing footage is much more crit than some players realize.
Wheaty has definitely started to see the diff in his own performance when he does.
Which is why the night he played on the road, he only let one in instead of the three he’s unfortunately become known for.
My hand winds around the doorknob to enter and an immediate sense of relief can be felt.
I would’ve loved to have seen her this morning, but she didn’t stay the night at our place – er – my place.
She slept at hers under the impresh I was going to be home earlier than I was, meanin’ there was no need to sleep over for Bronny to have adult supervision, yet we were met by weather delays that led us to landing at almost two which was extra rough considering our seven a.m. pracky.
And I would’ve done the crime of being tardy to the party, done the extra laps, crossovers, hammer curls, whatever, except she had an early morning herself that involved performing a hemisection on a patient, a bicuspidization on another, and an online seminar regarding the ethical practices of lab grown teeth all before prepping to fill in for Bull tonight.
She didn’t even have time to grab Bronny from tutoring this afternoon, something he made sure to vocalize his displeasure about like it was my fault the college freshman was more into me than him.
Entering the room should instantly expand the relief I’m feeling, free the frustration from not getting to relish in her sweet presence like they’re the perfect notes on a Teddy Pendergrass album; however due to the sight of the asshole who just kneed me in the shoulder helping himself to a handful of my girlfriend’s ass while she’s bent over retrieving something from the floor, has rage rushing through my veins.
Her squeak of shock – courtesy of being violated – sends me soaring from the door to the table.
Has my fist curling and swinging with the force of a brand-new tractor during the first day of harvest season.
Convinces my other to cut around from the other side.
Clip him in the edge of his jaw.
“Security!” Gilly squawks during my gentle pushing of her frame behind me.
Now, everyone knows, I’m more a lover than a fighter.
More “Footloose” than “Dangerzone”.
But you put your hands on a woman in a way the big DJ in the sky didn’t intend and I can change tuneskies real quick.
You put your hands on my woman in any way that’s disrespectful and I certainly will.
Without a second fucking thought.
“Security!” she calls out from what sounds like a bit further away.
The Cheetah pylon struggles to settle his stance prior to grunting, “What the fuck is your problem, post rider?” He uses the back of his dark beige hand to wipe away fresh blood. “Miss my balls in your face already?”
“Cap’s beatin’ was a warmie.” Positioning my fists to protect my face precedes me adding, “Welcome to game time.”
His first thrown punch is sloppily delivered alongside a vicious roar making it easy to dodge.
The next is barely cleaner than the first resulting in a quick deflection.
By the time his third and fourth make an appearance, I’ve located the easiest openings.
Mentally mapped my knockout.
“Too much of a pussy to try to hit me when I’m fucking paying attention, aye?!” the older, most likely to retire after his beating, player chirps. “Too-”
My right fist effortlessly lands in the center of his nose, not only kicking his head back, but sending a tooth flying to the ground.
Grumbles of agony echo around the room, yet they’re easy to drown out much like Bronny’s taste in music.
Another jab from the same hand is delivered to his open chest prompting my left to repeat the action before my right aims a little lower in his abdomen.
The lack of padding means he feels. Every. Fucking. Hit.
And him feeling every fucking hit pushes me to pummel faster.
Strike his liver.
Again.
And again.
And again, until he’s crumbling to one side, silent screaming.
Just as I move to strike higher, a large pair of golden tan arms, unexpectedly curl around my frame at the same time Dixon, head of Dalvegan security, firmly insists, “That’s enough, Groffee.
” Despite the order, my body thoughtlessly twitches in objection, the melody of determination to finish the ass whooping I started stronger than the harmony of logic. “I said enough.”
All of a sudden, a much gentler graze graces the tips of my fingers, prompting my attention to cut over to the woman I love to hear her whisper, “I’m okay, Jukes.”
Instinctively my digits curl around hers.
Tug her closer.
Fold them completely, the instant Dixon steps off.
Placing a kiss on her knuckles precedes me asking, “Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Like ’95 Michael Bolton?”
Amusement alongside adoration pierce her softening stare. “You really shouldn’t know that song.”
“You really shouldn’t be surprised I know that song, Gillybean.”
“And you should really tell me,” Dixon clears his throat, “what the fuck is going on in here.”
“That,” the dark-haired player whose name I never bothered to learn stabs the air in my direction from behind Tomas Rumlow, another member of in-house security, “fucking hillbilly-”
“You fuckin’ pigeon,” is growled in an interjection.
“-just Hulk busted his ass in here and started swinging!”
“You had your hands on my slayer!”
He leans forward and cockily flashes his bloody toothless grin. “She wanted it.”
“I did not!”
New bursts of anger rushing through me propel most of my frame forward, forcing Dixon to dart his arm out like a barrier. “No one puts their goddamn hands on my slayer but me!”
“Your. What?” quietly seethes a voice I wish was any other than the one it is.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
This ain’t at all how this was supposed to happen.
Gilly’s fingers fall from mine, yet I don’t shy away from repeating the declaration, “My Slayer.”
“No.” He swiftly shakes his head and shifts his stare over to his sister causing me to do the same. “No.”
Her mouth cracks open, releasing a second sound I wish was any other than the one I’ve come to know all too well.
The tiny hiccup has me pressing my lips together.
Tightly.
Shutting my eyes.
Swallowing down the lump of disappointment.
Really?
She was just gonna lie?
About us?
And now of all times?
Hell, was she even serious about the dinner this weekend or just gonna find a way to weasel us out of it?
To postpone this until a moment like this inevitably happened?
Why is being with me so fucking wrong?
Why am I here fighting for her when she clearly can’t be bothered to fight for me?
I mean…no woman deserves what just happened to her – and I put that on everything – but let’s just say putting him seven feet under – because six is a privilege – wouldn’t have been blaring through my mind like the soundtrack to an 80s action movie.
“You’re done,” Coach declares to me in an unrecognizable voice. “Go back to the locker room. Tell Wheaty he’s in.”
“I-”
“You’re benched.”
“But-”
“Benched!” He bellows at the top of his lungs. “This isn’t a fucking discussion!” There isn’t even time for my mouth to move before he’s locking eyes with Dixon. “Escort him there to guarantee he doesn’t fuck up anything else tonight.”
Dixon nods at the order and gestures a palm towards the doorway Coach is moving out of.
Instead of stealing a glance of Gilly or trying to speak a third time, I simply lift my hands in surrender.
Throw in the towel.
Because what the fuck is the point anyway?
She’s not speaking up.
He’s not shutting up.
And my voice?
Doesn’t matter.
To anyone.
“Rumlow, take Danny Zuko over there to the meet with DPD in the west office,” Dixon orders during my exiting.
“I’ll radio Conaway. Tell him to meet you there.
” I’m several steps ahead, practically rounding the corner when he responds to a question being asked, “Yeah, I’ll radio Atwell to go by his team’s room to grab his coach. ”
More words continue to be exchanged but fail from registering.
Exhaustion and irritation and outrage repeatedly cycle through my mind like 7-inch vinyls a DJ can’t seem to stop shuffling through resulting in my stumbling into the locker room as opposed to gracefully entering.
Snowman’s stare immediately zeroes in on me prompting him to ponder, “How in the hell do you look bloody worse than when you left?”
“Why’s Dix in here?” questions Peck offhandedly.
“’Cause it’s men’s hockey, F King,” Goonie Tune 2 lightly pokes.
“That’s where dicks are supposed to be,” his brother playfully adds.
“Wheaty,” I defeatedly call out prior to reaching my area, “gear up. You’re in.”
Our other tendy stops chewing mid bite, letting the bit of orange he had left tumble out of his open mouth. “Huh?”
“Coach is putting you in.”
“What?!” croaks Snowman in disbelief.
“Nyet.” Cap immediately bites. “Etogo ne proizoydet.” He slowly shakes his head while repeating it in English. “No. Not fucking happening.”
“I-I-I-I don’t wanna play,” Wheaty poorly mumbles out in between his own frantic headshakes. “I-I-I-I can’t play. Not now! Not when the boys clearly need you.”
“I wasn’t volunteerin’ to give you the pipes,” escapes at the same time I reach for my clearly vibrating cell. “I was told.” Once it’s in my possession, I plop down and inform, “I’m benched.”
“What the fuck did you do?!” Potato practically shouts at the top of his lungs.
“More like who the fuck he was doing,” Wahl murmurs loudly.
“Personal shite has to come after team shite,” Snowman insists and rises to his feet. “Ferda.”
“Ferda,” agrees our team leader, tossing his towel in the direction of the laundry bucket.
The slogan regarding we’re to always do what’s best for the team, for each other versus ourselves, has me ignoring the vibrations in my hand and briefly shutting my eyes again, this time in guilt.
Have I been doing that?
Or have I been selfishly putting me first?
My wants?
My needs?
My hopes?
My someday post-retirement dreams?
My fuckin’ soul?
Maybe I haven’t been letting my frustrations about being kept a fucking secret bleed out onto the ice, but I’m not sure continuing to date Coach’s sister behind his back was putting the team…the boys first.
“Coach knows that shit,” Goonie Tune 1 speaks up.
“Coach lives that shit,” his brother reiterates.
“He might simply need a reminder, aye?” Frosky tosses out prompting me to reopen my eyes.
“Groffee,” Cap calls out, summoning my stare in his direction once more, “you will be on that ice for those last twenty hard miles.”
And that’s what makes Igor Alexeyev the man for that position.
Worthy of that title.
He always fights for us.
He’s the type of player I hope my next team has on it when the inevitable trade call hits due to shit going down like this.
“Frosky,” Cap states on a head tilt, indicating to follow him. “Peck.”
There’s no hesitation from either of them to retreat out of the room on his heels.
Feeling my phone vibrating again, I drop my focus to it, Bronny’s picture immediately warranting an answer, “Yeah?”
“Thayne!” he shouts, voice shaky, damn near out of breath. “You didn’t answer!”
“I-”
“We got an emergency!”
“Wh-”
“And, and, and Gilly ain’t answerin’!”
“She-”
“And, and, and I can’t drive!”
“Why-”
“I mean I can drive but it ain’t legal yet!”
“Wha-”
“And damn sure not that far!”
“Wher-”
“And even if I could I ain’t got a car or truck or fuckin’ dirt bike! And this is why I need one!”
“Pause the track, little bro’,” I manage to say, frame crumbling slightly forward in concern. “Take a deep breath.”
“I can’t! Not now! There’s no time! I-”
“We make time,” escapes alongside me doing the action. “We’ll do it together.”
“But-”
“Whatever it is can wait one more sec, Bronson.” The firm declaration momentarily silences him. “Deep breath in.”
This time he audibly executes the instruction.
“Deep breath out.”
Once more, I can hear the action complete.
His stress level lowering.
My own recalibrating.
The beating in my chest now vibing more to a Kenny G track and less an Iron Madden cover.
“What’s goin’ on, Bronny?” Calmly investigating occurs in spite of the yelling I’m fairly certain is coming from the hallway. “What’s the emergency?”
“Grams.”