12. Tennant
TWELVE
Tennant
Breakfast with Brady. Wow, it was something special.
I mean, being able to sit with my older brother—who was generally a massive bag of dicks—by Mads’ side and talk freely about shit had been an amazing experience.
While he still had that elitist attitude about hockey and the Railers, he seemed to have found some respect for me as a man.
Everything in my life was clicking into place.
Sure, there were things that we needed to work through.
Like being out with Mads but not really being out with Mads, if that makes sense.
We went places, but were careful not to touch in an intimate way or show any signs of being anything other than friends or player/coach.
It kind of sucked. No, it really sucked.
I began wondering if coming out to the world might be the way to go.
Then, at least, we’d be able to hold hands at the movies and not have to sneak into each other’s homes.
Homes. That was another thing that needed to be thought about.
But for now I had to concentrate on afternoon hockey against my big brother’s team.
This was what it was all about. The crowds chanting my name, the smell of men in sweaty pads, the spray of ice, the sound of bodies and pucks bouncing off the boards, the knowledge that you just stole the puck from your older brother and got a quality scoring chance. Heh, yeah. Hockey.
“You’re making Brady look like a minor-leaguer,” Addison said during a line change.
I bumped gloved knuckles with him. Yeah, Brady was working hard to keep me covered.
It was the match-up of the day. The press had been slobbering over Rowe vs.
Rowe for days now, playing up the “youth and speed vs. age and experience” angle.
The truth was that the second line—which was still my line, damn it to fucking hell—was outmatching Boston every time we were on the ice.
But that outmatching came at a cost. Boston was a big, physical team.
Always had been and always would be. They played with an edge.
I had no doubt that when I was next out on the ice, Brady would make me pay for stealing that puck so easily from his stick.
We were rolling into the bottom of the second period with two fat goose eggs on the scoreboard.
The Railers were keeping up well with the big, bad boys from Boston, though.
We had the edge in face-off wins, but Boston was creaming us with blocked shots and hits.
Like, their hits tally must be in the hundreds by now, or maybe it just felt that way.
Brady had driven my ass into the boards so many times I’d lost count. I’d be a huge walking bruise tomorrow.
I spat my mouth guard into my hand, rinsed my mouth with water, spat that onto the floor between my skates, then grabbed my other bottle and downed some Gatorade.
Seven minutes left in the period. After I rehydrated, a trainer tossed me a clean towel.
I scrubbed my face and then my visor, feeling the hum of the game in my marrow.
Mads was instructing, aka yelling at the defense.
He wanted more net-front pressure on the Boston goalie.
That would be nice. So, then the next play, one of the Railers puts lots of pressure on the goalie.
So much that he ends up in the penalty box with a two-minute goaltender interference call. Dumbass.
I shoved my mouth guard back in and threw my legs over the boards. I was always out for first shift of the penalty kill. And of course, when one Rowe boy was on the ice, here came the other.
“Would you stop following me around? Shit, little brothers are so fucking annoying,” Brady chirped as he skated past in all his “I’m the Captain, just look at my big C” glory.
The other Boston players thought that was funny. I kind of did too, but I’d never let him know it.
“I’m just staying behind to catch you in case you totter and fall over, old man.”
The Railers found great humor in my reply.
I saw a spark of amusement in Brady’s dark eyes.
I slipped into position for the face-off.
The Boston center mumbled something about my mother that made me a little mad.
I snapped the puck from under his big nose and fired it to a winger.
That Boston center and I stayed at the dot talking to each other after the play headed down into our zone.
“You know you just called your team captain’s mother a dirty snatch, right?”
“No, I was calling your mother… Fuck. You suck dick, then. How about that, fucking pretty boy?”
I took a swing, because that was my mother he was talking about.
Gloves hit the ice—his first, I need to point out.
There was no way I was coming out on top of this fight, but I gave it my best. I managed to land a blow to his shoulder.
He got a jab to my right eye in before we fell to the ice, pulling on sweaters and pummeling shoulder pads.
Whistles were blowing steadily now. We were pulled apart and led to our respective penalty boxes, chirping all the while.
I flopped down beside Arvy. He thumped me on the shoulder with the side of his fist.
“Good on you, kid,” Arvy crowed.
My brother skated over to the Railers box to hand me my gloves and stick. “You know we’re going to score now, right? That was stupid.” He shoved my gear at me, then skated off.
Yeah, he was right. It had been stupid to remove myself from the PK and leave us down two men, but it felt good to wrestle that asshole down to the ice.
My mother was not a dirty snatch, although I did suck dick.
Guess he was half right. And Brady was right about them scoring, the fuckers.
Arvy and I both got our asses chewed when we were back in the dressing room between periods.
Third period seemed to get even more physical.
Brady had gulped down some magic elixir or something, because I could not shake him when I was on the ice.
He was all over me, pushing, pushing, pushing, until he pushed just a little too hard.
I had the puck about ten minutes into the third period and was racing at the Boston net.
Brady knew there was no way he could catch me flat out, so he had only one choice to pull me off my direct intercept course, and that was to grab my arm and hold it.
Off he went for a two-minute sit in the sin bin.
Now, finally, with a man advantage, maybe we could tie this puppy up.
There was lots of chatter on ice before the faceoff.
I’d been pulled off to rest and prepare for the second shift of the power play.
The first unit hit the Boston net hard, firing shot after shot, but all of them into the chest of the goalie.
When I was on the ice, I decided that I was going to stop trying to elevate the puck on each shot.
The Boston tendie was not going to let anything go high.
Going low would be the only way to sneak one past him.
Hopefully we could get lots of dusky blue sweaters in the crease to block his sharp eyes.
We got our chance with fifty seconds left of the power play.
After Boston had iced the puck, we were facing off in the defensive zone of the offending team, which in this case was Boston.
My wingers were spaced out nicely and the two D-men were tight. Me and Big Nose smiled at each other.
“Nice eye. You ain’t so pretty now,” he mumbled as the puck dropped through the air.
I dug in, got the puck, and shuttled it to Arvy.
He passed it to Addison, who took a weak shot that the Boston goalie deflected into the air.
The puck came down behind the net. I shook off Big Nose with a quick move that sent him skating past me, his stick dangerously close to a hook around my middle.
There was a pile-up over the puck, players lunging at it like a pack of hungry dogs.
Sticks clattered, men growled, and the puck shot out of the assembly behind the Boston net and bounced off the corner board.
Our ice is weird. I knew that the puck would come off that curved board and take a funky hop.
It always did. Being the home team has its advantages.
I pushed out of the knot of men on skates, raced to the point I knew the puck would reach, and picked it up after that wonky bounce took place.
I drew back and hit the puck with all I had.
The slap shot bounced like a tennis ball, the puck juking up into the air then coming down right in front of the Boston tender.
It rolled between his legs on its side and into the net.
The red light behind the Boston goal came on.
The horn sounded, and I threw myself against the glass, beating on it as the Railers fans on the other side did the same.
The other men on the ice swarmed over me, patting my helmet and congratulating me.
Skating down the line to rap knuckles with all the players, I looked at the coaches.
Mads gave me a smile and a nod. Benning seemed delighted.
Then I tapped my helmet with my fingers at the Rowe brother who had just exited the penalty box.
Brady just shook his head, then went to sit down.
No one else scored after that. The goalies had locked shit down.
We pushed through a five-minute overtime and still no goals.
The shootout would have to determine the winner.
Getting one point for the tie was okay, but we needed that other point.
Our division was killer tight already, and every point was going to be critical.
Also, beating Brady was just a thing that had to happen.