22. Hudson
HUDSON
Overtime is three-on-three. I take left, Rocco takes the dot, Oliver lines up right. Coach wants clean possession and a quick change if we get stuck.
We’re not getting stuck. Not on our watch.
Rocco wins it back and pulls to the wall. I swing underneath for speed and take the outlet in stride. Their defender shades the middle. I fake cut and rim it to Oliver. He gathers and feeds back to Rocco for a one-timer. Blocked. Puck jumps into the neutral zone.
I turn and go, high between the tops. Their winger grabs at the puck. I slide it flat to Oliver, then slip past for the give-and-go. He returns it sharp. I catch, open my hips, and shoot a low blocker. Pad save. Rebound dies in the blue. Their goalie covers.
The game is tight. Tighter than I want it to be.
Right then, Travis jumps early. He should be at the gate waiting for the whistle.
Instead, he hops and cuts across my lane, screaming for the puck.
He drifts right into my path and clips my inside knee.
I stumble, lose my edge, and bump Oliver’s stick as he releases.
The pass skitters. Their D knocks it down, hits their center with a stretch, and now it’s a two-on-one the other way.
What in the fuck is he doing?
I dig back. Oliver turns to cover. Rocco takes the middle. I’m one step late because I’m recovering from Travis’s screen. Their puck carrier fakes shot, slides the pass under Rocco’s stick, and their guy one-times it off the bar and in. Horn. Game over.
The building goes dead, then loud. Our bench stares at the ice. Travis coasts to the gate like he didn’t just cut me off. I skate straight to him and say, “What was that?”
He shrugs. “Trying to help.”
“You were supposed to wait.”
“Coach wants fresh legs.”
“Coach didn’t tell you that.”
He lifts his chin. “You didn’t finish, old-timer.”
I see red. Rocco slides between us with a glove on my chest. “Tunnel,” he barks. I turn and slam my stick once into the rubber mat because if I hit the wall, they’ll bill me for it. The sound echoes and dies.
In the locker room, the air feels wrong.
No music. Guys peel gear in silence. Coach writes two words on the board: DETAILS MATTER.
He turns, looks at the group, and then at me.
He doesn’t call anyone by name. He doesn’t have to.
“We gave that away. We will not do that again.” He dismisses us to the media.
I don’t want to talk. I want to hit.
PR shepherds us to the backdrop. The first few questions are normal. Neutral zone entries. Overtime structure. I keep my answers short. Then a reporter with a tablet steps forward. I know his face. He chases clicks.
The asshole from last time.
“Hudson, why are you so distracted lately? Your game is suffering. You let the play get behind you in overtime. All of Baltimore needs you to get your shit together.”
I swallow. “We made a bad change. That’s on us.”
He crowds in. “Is it the barista situation? Is it the poly thing? Are you fighting with your own team? Is your girlfriend making you soft?”
PR says, “Game questions only.”
He ignores it. “You’ve been chasing hits and missing assignments,” he keeps going. “You snapped last week. You’re about to blow it again. Fans want answers.”
“Back up,” I say, calm as I can manage.
He smiles like he smells blood. “Does she sleep in your bed or theirs on game nights?”
My hands move before my brain catches up. I step in and swat the tablet from his hand. It hits the floor, and the screen cracks. He staggers back and throws his arms wide like I hit him.
Cameras eat it. PR pulls me by the elbow. “We’re done here.”
My face is hot, and my vision tunnels.
Coach meets me in the hall. “Office!”
I sit on the small couch and look at the carpet so I don’t say something that lives forever. He shuts the door and stands with his arms crossed. “You can’t give them that. I don’t care if he spits in your face. You can’t do it.”
“I know.”
“Take three days. No skate. No gym with the guys. No arguing.”
“Coach—”
“The team needs you the way you can be, not the way you’ve been.”
That’s a hit that lands.
I don’t trust my mouth. I grab my keys and leave the rink by the side door because I don’t want to see anyone else. The night air hits me. It doesn’t help.
I drive home too fast and make myself slow down. I replay the clip in my head. Travis, cutting my lane. The pass dying. Me knocking a tablet to the ground like a fucking rookie.
It loops until I park.
The apartment is quiet except for a noise I don’t want to hear. I step into the kitchen and see Meg at the table with a stack of papers and her laptop open. Her face is wet.
“The fuck happened?” I ask.
She pushes a letter forward. “The thirty days is now three weeks.”
Rage whips through me. “How?”
“ Amended notice. They’re calling it urgent repairs to the building and a need to vacate sooner. Dana says they can try. She’ll fight it. But it’s a new clock.”
“The fuck!” I snap.
She sniffles. “I did this. I poked the bear when I emailed Callie back?—”
“This isn’t on you,” I say. “They’re assholes! All of them!”
“I told her she could keep the used car salesman. Luke hates being called that. Now we have less time.”
I look at the letter. New date circled in red. Twenty-one days total. I feel the heat in my chest spike. “He’s usually home by now, right?”
Oliver comes in from the hall, calm voice already loaded. “No.”
Rocco steps behind Meg and puts his hands on her shoulders. “We fight this with filings. Not fists.”
“I just need to talk to him,” I say. “If he can’t speak Boston sign language, that’s not my fault.”
“No,” Oliver repeats. “You’re on suspension already.”
Meg wipes her face. “Please don’t go. I can’t carry you getting arrested on top of everything else.”
I put both hands on the back of the chair and squeeze until the wood creaks. “I need to hit something. I’ll go downstairs.”
“Wrap your hands,” Oliver says.
“I will.” I kiss the top of Meg’s head and go to the gym.
The building’s gym is empty. I pull the wraps from the bin and sit on the bench. I loop, wrap, and tuck. I stand in front of the bag and touch it once. Then I start.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Breathe. I keep my feet under me. I keep my hands up. I throw in sets of tens and walk off the bag after each set because I know what happens if I don’t. I roll my shoulders out and go back. The sound in my head stays loud.
The reporter. Travis. The horn. The letter. The look on Meg’s face. I add knees to the bag and shoulder bumps. I imagine a net, a puck, a gate that opens for clean changes only.
Travis’s dumbass face.
My knuckles start to burn. I should stop.
I pop the bag again and again until the skin splits under the wrap. I feel the sting and keep going for one more set because the point isn’t pain. It’s noise reduction, and it hasn’t gone away yet.
When my chest finally stops buzzing, I hold the bag and count to thirty. Then I undo the wraps and see blood on the cloth.
I go to the sink and run cold water until it hurts in a clean way. I wash, dry, and press paper towels to each split, relish the burn. I sit on the bench and wait for the bleeding to slow.
My hands look stupid. I feel stupid. Because that was a stupid thing to do.
But not as stupid as kicking Luke’s ass would have been.
I toss the wraps in the bin and walk to the elevator with my fists open so I don’t crack anything else. Back upstairs, the apartment is dark. How long was I gone?
I grab the first aid kit from under the sink and set it on the counter. I clean the cuts with saline, dab antibiotic, and wrap clean gauze around each knuckle. It’s neat by the time I’m done. I catch my face in the microwave door and barely recognize the guy looking back.
Not good. Not good at all.
I turn the hall light low and walk toward Meg’s room.
The door is ajar. I look in. All three are asleep on top of the comforter, as if they fell down there.
Meg is tucked in the middle on her side.
Oliver is on the outside with a hand on her ankle.
Rocco is behind her, his arm under the pillow and his other hand on the blanket that covers her hip.
They’re breathing shallow. No one is dreaming hard. The room smells like soap and our detergent.
I stand in the doorway long enough to feel my heart slow for the first time all night. The anger drops from my neck, my shoulders. It settles into the pit of my stomach. It doesn’t vanish.
Meg is devastated, and I wasn’t here for her when she needed me, because I was too wrapped up in my own bullshit anger. That’s the worst shame I can think of. I didn’t make the right choices tonight.
I can make them now.
I wash my hands and re-wrap them because I don’t want to get blood on the sheets.
I lift the corner of the blanket and slide in behind Rocco.
The mattress shifts. He doesn’t wake. I find Meg’s calf with my shin and leave it there.
Oliver opens his eyes for half a second, sees me, and closes them again.
He exhales. I tuck the blanket higher and listen.
The apartment hums the way it always hums. The fridge cycles. A pipe clicks. Rocco snores once, short, then stops. Meg sighs and snuggles her face deeper into the pillow. Oliver shifts and leaves his hand where it was. It’s quiet in a way that feels like an answer.
The game is over. The clip is online. The league will call. Coach will fine me. Travis exists. The clock on the building got shorter. None of that is bigger than this.
I’m responsible for what I did. I won’t make excuses.
I’m working with our counselor. I’ll apologize to the reporter for slapping his tablet and pay to replace it.
I’ll apologize to fans for making the story about me, and to my teammates for giving anyone a reason to question our room. I’ll accept whatever discipline comes.
That’s the statement. No spin.
I will not go near Luke. I will not give Travis space in my head. I’ll earn my minutes by being where I’m supposed to be and leaving the rest alone.
Tomorrow I’ll get up early and make breakfast. Oatmeal and fruit. Coffee. I’ll clean the kitchen before she wakes. I’ll take the morning Meals on Wheels route if they need a sub. I’ll carry boxes at Bea’s.
I’ll be useful. I might be a ball of rage, but I can be a useful ball of rage.
I lie there and feel Meg’s breath on my wrist where the blanket gaps. It steadies me better than anything ever could. I match my inhale to hers and hold it for a count. I let it out slow. My shoulders drop into the mattress. The tightness in my chest loosens until it’s just space.
I don’t know what the league will do. I don’t know what a judge will do. But I know what I can do. I can wake up, ice my hands, and get the work done.
I press my bandaged knuckles lightly to the sheet and let the ache be what it is. It isn’t punishment. It’s a reminder. I choose what I do with my rage. I choose to keep my head even when someone calls me distracted. I choose them.
Meg shifts and finds my hand under the blanket without waking. Her fingers curl around two of mine. Oliver’s foot nudges my calf like he’s anchoring me to the bed. Rocco’s breath evens and stays even. The knot in my stomach loosens.
All the other stuff falls away.