Chapter 14 #2
On the penalty kill, I block a passing lane without dropping into a shot I cannot control. The puck travels high. I arrive at the point before the defenseman can settle it and force him backward.
The crowd jeers when I complete the pressure without hitting him.
I hear every person who once rose because I did.
The sound should not matter. A crowd does not sign my contract, choose the lineup, or decide whether my hand closes correctly the morning after a fight.
The crowd still taught me what usefulness sounded like long before any coach offered a better definition.
During the next change, the opposing bench calls for me to wave at the children. Someone asks whether Diana keeps my gloves in her purse. Another player says the nonprofit should put me in a padded room with the beginners.
The words do not make the video breach worse. They make the shame public enough that restraint starts feeling like agreement.
Harmless.
Controlled.
A man whose value lasted only until a woman taught him not to use it.
I know the trap. I keep skating into it one careful shift at a time.
Patrick takes another hit midway through the next period. This one comes along the end boards while he is reaching for a loose puck. The defender arrives with legal timing and enough force to knock Patrick down.
Patrick slides onto one hip, gets a knee beneath himself, and turns immediately toward the puck.
I check his position.
He lifts one glove without looking at me. “Play.”
I play.
The puck reaches the corner. I get inside the second defender, take possession with one hand low on the stick, and move it to Patrick after he regains his feet.
The defender who hit him stays near the boards. I can finish through his shoulder without leaving the play. The contact would be legal.
I choose the puck route instead.
Patrick receives the pass and sends it behind the net. Vincent reaches it first. Our line creates two chances before the home team clears.
When we return to the bench, Gordon taps my shoulder with the marker.
“That’s the answer,” he says.
The praise should give me something solid.
The home bench has already found another version.
“Coach gave you a sticker,” the winger calls. “Show your girlfriend.”
I sit with both gloves still on and stare at the next faceoff circle.
The media breach has its own process. The program complaint continues without me. Diana’s city work continues without me. The nonprofit does not need my face, my money, or my permission to succeed.
That is the correct structure.
It also means there is nothing useful I can do to shorten the distance between us.
I withdrew approval. I provided the communications. I supported the correction. Each action belonged to the breach and ended where its purpose ended.
Diana did not reward any of it with access.
She should not have.
My body does not know what to do with a consequence it cannot absorb faster by hurting.
The score remains close enough that every mistake carries forward. We are not chasing a lost game. We are inside one that can still turn on a change, a penalty, or one player deciding he needs to make the wrong thing visible.
The home team begins targeting Patrick more directly.
He is the youngest player on our line and the easiest route to me. They finish him whenever the puck comes near the wall. They crowd his hands at faceoffs. One opponent says something after a whistle that makes Patrick’s face flush beneath the helmet.
Patrick answers with his stick on the ice and his next route completed.
I watch because watching is part of the plan now.
Late in the period, Vincent sends the puck around the boards from below our goal line. Patrick reaches it near the hash marks and turns his body to move the exit up the wall.
The opposing defenseman is already coming.
Patrick releases the puck before contact. It travels past me toward the neutral zone.
The defenseman takes another stride.
There is time to stop. His shoulders are high enough to change the angle, and Patrick no longer has the puck.
He finishes anyway.
The hit catches Patrick from the side and drives him into the boards after the play has moved beyond both of them. Patrick’s helmet strikes the glass. His knees fold, and he drops beside the wall.
The official’s arm rises before I turn.
The whistle follows.
I am closer than Irene. Closer than the official crossing from center ice. Closer than Vincent, who is changing direction near the blue line.
I reach Patrick first.
He is on one knee with both gloves against the ice. His head lifts, and his eyes find me through the cage.
“I’m all right,” he says.
The words are clear.
The defenseman stands two feet behind him.
Bodies arrive from both directions. One of our defensemen pushes toward the hitter. An opposing winger comes in from the middle. The first official places himself between the hitter and Patrick while the second points toward the penalty box.
I move into the open space beside Patrick.
My body blocks the scrum from reaching him. I keep both gloves on my stick and angle my shoulders so Irene has a lane from the bench. Patrick remains visible to her and to the official.
This is protection.
The hitter backs away while the official directs him toward the box. He has both gloves on. His mouth is open around a grin.
“Look at you,” he says. “Making room for the nurse.”
I stay where I am.
Irene reaches Patrick. She kneels beside him and begins asking questions. The official gestures for me to move another step away.
I move.
The hitter reaches the edge of the scrum and looks directly at me. He taps the side of his helmet, then points toward Patrick.
“Go ask your girlfriend if this one counts.”
The home bench strikes the boards.
Our bench answers with noise of its own. I cannot separate the words. Someone is calling for discipline. Someone is calling the hit dirty. Someone uses my name.
The official’s arm is still raised.
Patrick is conscious. Irene has reached him. Vincent is skating toward me with one hand extended, not touching yet, giving me a route away from the wall.
I can leave.
The decision is complete enough to feel beneath both skates.
Turn toward the bench. Keep the gloves. Let the penalty exist. Protect the next shift instead of punishing the last hit.
The hitter takes another step backward and spreads his hands.
The grin remains.
The crowd sees me standing between him and Patrick without doing the thing they came to see. His bench sees it. Gordon sees it. Charles will see the clip. Every other team will see how many words and late hits it takes to make Michael D’Amico disappear from the role that kept him employed.
Restraint feels like standing still while everyone agrees I have become less.
That feeling is not an order.
The official points again. Vincent says my name.
I turn away from the route he gives me.
The hitter sees the choice before I reach him. His gloves drop.
Mine follow.
I cover the distance with two strides and catch his jersey at the chest. He throws first, a short punch that clips the side of my helmet. I pull him off balance and answer with my right hand.
The first punch lands near his cheek.
The second catches his helmet.
He grips my shoulder and tries to turn me toward the boards. I widen my stance, drive him backward, and hit him again before he can reset.
The crowd becomes one hard sound.
This is shorter than the first fight. There is no long circle, no clean exchange, and no second where either of us looks skilled. We are too close. Our helmets strike. His fist catches the side of my head, and mine slides across his mouth.
An official reaches us almost immediately.
“Separate. Let go.”
The hitter’s grip opens.
Mine does not.
The linesman wedges one shoulder between our chests. Another official catches my right arm and pulls it away from the hitter.
The fight has ended.
I feel the ending. His weight moves backward. The jersey in my left hand goes loose. The official between us has control of the space.
I still want punishment.
I wrench my right arm free enough to reach around the official and hit the other player once more.
The punch is ugly. It lands high near the side of his helmet while he is already being pulled away.
The linesman drives both forearms into my chest and shoves me backward.
“That’s it. You’re gone.”
I do not fight him.
The distinction is useless now.
Vincent stands beyond the officials with his stick still in both hands. He does not approach. His face is visible through the cage, and the distance between us is the exact route he tried to give me before I crossed it.
Patrick remains near the boards with Irene.
He is sitting upright.
The sight reaches me after the choice has already cost everyone something.
The officials sort the penalties at the scorer’s table. The original hit receives its own punishment. The fight receives another set. My instigation and the extra conduct after separation take away the advantage the raised arm should have given us.
The official points me toward the tunnel instead of the box.
I skate past the Breakers bench.
Nobody taps my shin pads. Nobody tells me the hit needed an answer. Gordon stands with one hand on the boards and the other closed around the marker he used when he told me not to take a penalty.
I stop near the open door because he looks directly at me.
He could say I misunderstood.
He could say the second half of his instruction never meant this.
He says nothing while the official waits behind me.
I leave the ice.
The service corridor beneath the road arena is narrower than ours. My shoulder nearly catches a concrete corner when the guard directs me toward the visiting room. I turn in time and keep walking.
My right hand begins swelling before I reach my stall.
An equipment worker helps remove my helmet because the strap has twisted near my jaw. Blood marks the edge of my mouth, though I cannot tell whether it comes from a cut inside or the skin above it.
I sit in partial equipment while the game continues on the screen.