Chapter Twenty-One
Owen
Mama Bird: So, remember that electrician the roofer recommended?
Mama Bird: Turns out that my gut was right. It was a scam.
Mama Bird: I paid him up front and haven’t heard from him in two weeks. Now his phone number doesn’t work anymore.
Mama Bird: Frustrating! I’m figuring out how to take him to small claims court.
Mama Bird: Anyway, good luck at the game today!
I stare down at my phone. My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely read the text, though three times was enough. My stomach drops straight through the floor.
“Ready to go, dude?” Viktor asks. “Hey, Owen? You good?”
“Yeah.” I slam the door on my emotions and toss my phone into my locker. I’m fine. I’m going to be fine. I’m going to push my feelings all the way down. I’ll focus on the ice. On the net.
On the game.
The lie sounds weak inside my own head.
“Who pissed in your cornflakes?” Viktor jostles me with one elbow, clearly trying to get some sort of reaction out of me. I give him nothing. I need a minute to process.
If I open my mouth right now, I’m not entirely convinced I won’t start yelling.
I wish I could talk to Remy. But she’s barely said two words to me since I told her about my dad.
At the time, I thought she understood me, but the way she’s avoided me since then speaks for itself.
Apparently, telling somebody the worst thing about yourself is a great way to watch them pull away afterward.
“I’m fine,” I say again.
Viktor pulls a face. “Sure you are. And as long as you stay fine during this game, we’ll be good. Don’t do anything stupid, Rourke.”
In warmups, my timing is off. It’s even more noticeable because I’ve been doing so well this season. Viktor keeps making eye contact to check in, but I just nod each time. I’ll be fine once the game starts. If anything, I’ll be better than ever.
Some lowlife loser scammed my mother because he thought she was an easy mark.
“All good, Rourke?” Tristan asks.
“All good,” I reply.
At this point, I’m basically one bad thought away from chewing through drywall.
But as we get ready to enter the rink, it occurs to me with blinding clarity: It’s a good thing that the fucker who scammed my mother took her money and ran. What if he’d done the job poorly, and his subpar work caused an electrical fire?
I’m so horrified by the thought that I almost miss the moment when the commentator calls my name. Coach Metcalfe has to get my attention. People cheer as I push off into the rink. The bright lights and the frantic cheering from the stands mingle with my dark fantasies of a possible fire.
Not helpful. She’s fine. Everything’s fine. It’s only money.
Tell that to every kid who’s ever watched smoke pouring out of their house, wondering if their mother’s going to make it out.
In a moment of sheer desperation, I seek out Remy, who is mingling with the press corps per Dante’s newest machinations.
She’s wearing her pass and headset, and carrying her ever-present clipboard, trying to blend in.
My entire nervous system unclenches for half a second just from seeing her.
She looks calm. Peaceful. And she barely smiles in the brief seconds when we make eye contact.
After that, she won’t meet my eyes at all.
That hurts more than Dallas scoring ever could.
“That your babysitter?” one of the wingers from Dallas asks.
“Fuck off, Toutain,” I snap.
He leers at me, but then he’s gone, and I tell myself that’s the end of it. I’ll get in the crease, I’ll pull all this shit out of my mind, and things will return to normal.
If only. Three minutes into the first period, Dallas scores on a deflection. Toutain winks on his way past.
“First the net, then your shadow, eh?” He makes a lewd gesture on the way past. “Dallas knows how to get it in!”
His teammates laugh as my vision goes hot around the edges.
It’s just chirping. Shitty, but not unexpected. My mistake is that I look toward Remy in that moment, to make sure that she’s still there.
Toutain smells my weakness like a shark sensing blood in the water. I know I’m going to regret that.
Things get worse in the second period. He must have said something to the rest of his team, because suddenly, they all seem to know. They found the exact bruise to keep pressing. They score again, and this time, they make it all about Remy.
“You cry after she swallowed you, too?”
“Bet she’s only with you for the paycheck, buddy!”
I do my best to lock in, but it’s too late.
The rest of the team is playing an amazing game, but I’m not pulling my weight.
I’m too slow, like I’m running on a delay timer.
My body feels miles away from my brain. This is what happens when panic gets into your bloodstream.
Everything turns sluggish except the fear.
At least, for the moment, all the action is happening on the other side of the rink. I take a deep breath and, without thinking, check on Remy once again. She’s moved closer to the boards to say something to Violet.
There’s no way in hell that Toutain can see the subtle movements of my eyeballs from this far away, but he’s surely noticed how many times I’ve checked on Remy over the course of the night.
He’s nowhere near the puck, either. There’s no reason for him to slam into the glass right beside her other than that he’s a malicious little shit.
But he does. And I’m staring right at Remy when it happens.
And suddenly I’m twelve years old again, hearing my mother scream from the kitchen.
The impact startles her, and she flinches. Stumbles. Falls. Her headset goes flying. The rage boiling inside me tears completely loose.
I’m moving before I have time to think about what a bad idea this is. There’s not a single thought in my head other than the knowledge that Remy is in danger right now because of some reckless asshole with a huge ego. My brain stops recognizing context after that.
I remember all the times my dad went after Mom. The many times I couldn’t stop his fists. The yells from the stands and the babble of the commentators are nothing but noise.
I never seem to be able to protect my mom, but damn if I can’t make an effort to protect Remy. Maybe because failing once still feels like failing forever.
“Owen!” somebody yells. One of my teammates, probably. I don’t even slow down. I hit Toutain at full speed, tackling him to the ice.
The fight itself is a blur. I’m dimly aware of my teammates piling on. Of his teammates piling on. My vision is white at the edges. I’m screaming, unintelligibly at first, and then the same thing over and over. “You sick motherfucker! You can’t hurt her! I won’t let you hurt her!”
Hands grab at my arms and jersey, trying to pull me off of him.
I’m too strong for them. That realization should scare me sooner than it does.
I latch onto Toutain with one arm and hammer him with the other, giving the fight everything I’ve got.
He needs to be punished. I need to punish him.
The thought feels terrifyingly righteous in the moment.
“I won’t let you hurt her!”
“Rourke! Back the fuck up!”
“You festering taint licker!”
“Goddamn it, Owen, let go of him!”
Their pleading doesn’t stop me. The sound of my name doesn’t stop me. The thing that finally gets through is the moment when Toutain turns his head toward me. His helmet’s off. His lip is split. One of his eyes is swollen shut.
He’s bleeding. I did that. With my fists.
For one horrible second, all I can see is my father.
I freeze mid-swing. Finally, they’re able to pull me off of Toutain; I recognize Viktor’s face in my peripheral vision. All the anger from earlier drains out of me and the real world seeps back in.
The cheers and booing from the fans.
The speculation of the commentary. “—apparently without provocation. Oh, no, wait, look at this. Clovis Toutain managed to break the glass—”
Cam says, “Shit. This might be a game misconduct.”
Honestly? He’s probably being optimistic.
In front of me, Violet helps Remy off the floor behind the bench. Toutain didn’t just crack the plexiglass barrier. He shattered it.
I need to know how she is, but I’m being hauled away. With no other recourse, I let it happen. It doesn’t sink in right away that I’ve been ejected until the commentators start discussing what this means for the game.
“—looks as if both Rourke and Toutain have been ejected from the game. Have you ever seen anything like that?”
“No, but the cameras caught everything. You know, after that fight on the ice earlier this year, Rourke’s developed a bit of a reputation as a wild card, but in this case, I’m on his side. Toutain had no reason to assault that Venom employee standing behind the glass.”
They shouldn’t be on my side.
“From where I’m sitting, Toutain is the one at fault, but we’ll see what the court of public opinion has to say—”
Coach Metcalfe is livid. “Facemask off, Rourke!” he bellows.
I yank my helmet off, gasping for air. “Is she okay?”
“I don’t know what the hell that was about, but—”
I cut him off. “Is she okay?”
Coach Metcalfe’s eye twitches. “I don’t know.”
Violet appears beside him. I’m so disoriented that I truly have no idea where she came from.
“She’s fine,” Violet says. “Shaking, for sure, but she’s okay. She’ll have a bruise on her elbow at worst.”
I finally catch another glimpse of Remy. She’s panting, one hand pressed to her chest, but Violet’s telling the truth. She’s upright, with no sign of blood on her.
Thank God, thank God, thank God…
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees almost give out.
But the disappointment in her eyes almost breaks me.
“Come on.” Violet shoves me deeper into the tunnel. Inside, Dante screams in Sicilian. And for once, I’ll shut up and take it.
All that matters is that Remy’s okay now. I can take whatever comes next, as long as she’s safe. I repeat that mantra to myself as I head to my fate.
Even if I just destroyed everything else.