Chapter 9 Dominic
Dominic
“It’s starting to feel cold in here,” the announcer booms over the sound system, and the crowd starts to cheer. “Entering the arena, welcome the . . . Blizzard!”
We hit the ice one right after another, immediately skating in loops and swirl patterns around our half of the ice to warm up. It’s a preseason game, but the routine is the same every time. Athletes thrive on routine—it helps balance out the chaos of the game itself. So everything should be normal.
Except I’m wearing a fucking baby-blue jersey and the team around me isn’t family the way the Hawks have always been. They’re a bunch of dipshits who act like life is a frat party.
“Ready for this?” I ask Kipson as I stretch beside him.
“Born fucking ready.”
Liar. He is not ready in the slightest. His eyes are jumping all over the place, he’s bouncy as hell, and I don’t think he pissed before we hit the ice, which means he’s starting at a hydration deficit. Or he’s going to piss his pants.
I’ve been watching him at practices. I’ve been watching everyone, plus spending all my free time watching old games to get a better feel for each and every Blizzard player. If this is gonna be my temporary home, I refuse to let them take me down.
Not that these guys could do anything in a blaze of glory. It’d be more like a weak-assed puff of YouTube infamy and fuckup memes, I think bitterly.
That’s not fair and you know it.
Internally, I sigh at my own woe-is-me bullshit. Truth be told, I wish I could write this whole team off as lost causes, but despite me not liking them personally, most of the guys are solid on the ice. That’s what got them to the Finals last year.
Except Kipson.
He used to be one of the stars of their highlight reels, but now, he really is their weak link. But my observations have revealed more about him than he would probably suspect, and tonight, in a preseason game where it doesn’t necessarily count, is the time to test my theory.
I skate up to him until we’re nearly chest to chest. “Born ready or not, get your shit together so we don’t lose this fucking game because you’re butthurt.”
“The hell’d you say to me?” he snarls, pushing me in an attempt to put inches between us.
That’s what I’m looking for—that fire, that anger, that zeroed-in focus. It’d be better if he was angry against our opponents, but giving him fuck-you energy against me might work too.
I don’t relent. If anything, I lean back in even closer.
“You heard me. All that pain, all that anger, all that emptiness you’re feeling?
” I spit the words at him, watching his eyes narrow as each one hits its intended bull’s-eye.
“Take it out on the ice. Take it out on those assholes that’re gonna be gunning for you because they know you’re fucked in the head.
Show them that the fucked-up version of you is scarier than the lovesick asshole you used to be. ”
“I’m gonna kick your ass, Lee.” It’s a vow he means wholeheartedly.
“Maybe later,” I reply with a cocky smirk, inviting him to try. “For now, let’s win this damn game.”
“Fuck you.”
“Aw, love you, too, man.” I skate away backward, holding up my finger and thumb in a tiny heart shape.
Hard truths followed by annoying bullshit. It’s not exactly rocket science, but it’s surprisingly effective on a testosterone-addled mind, resulting in anger that’s particularly useful in a physically demanding sport.
Taking my place on the left side of the ice, Anderson whistles at me from his spot in the net. When I glance back, he asks, “You got a death wish I need to know about?”
“We’ll see,” I answer before putting my own focus solidly where it needs to be . . . the drop of the puck, and the incoming attack from the Vortex’s center.
Midway through the second period, I’m perched on the bench but my body is reacting to every movement on the ice as if I’m the one out there.
“Get in there, Rodney!” I shout. “Help him, Sabine!”
These guys are not my guys. This team is not my team.
But if I’m stuck with them, I’m gonna be supportive.
Especially of the rookies who might still be worth something and are just glad to get some ice time since if they show out in tonight’s meaningless game, they might not be sent down to the minors.
As though my cheers, or the small crowd’s, actually helped, Rodney makes a slick move toward the Vortex’s goal and takes a quick snap shot. It’s blocked, but it was a solid attempt that I can respect.
“I know what you’re doing,” Kipson growls from beside me. We rotated out together this time and thankfully, he’s been drinking the water he should’ve had before the game started.
I don’t give him my full attention, just merely cut my eyes his way. “Good. You’ve got another period to go still to earn your place on this team.”
“Asshole.” He takes another healthy swig from his water bottle.
I lean over the slightest bit, inclining my head. “If you’ve forgotten, the key to winning is that little black thing out there.”
He bumps his shoulder into mine, the hard impact jostling me on the bench. I don’t fight back, not now. It’s not the time. Instead, I chuckle. It’ll set him off more. I know it will, but I’ve gotta hurt him to help him.
Coach must have eyes in the back of his head because, though his never left the action on the ice, he snaps, “Do we have a problem, boys?”
“Nah,” I fake-drawl, “just doing my job, Coach.”
“Put that fight into the game. Fight them, not each other,” he advises. “Get your asses back out there.”
Kipson and I stand, wait for our chance, and on the signal, vault the boards and hit the ice once more.
If I had to choose when to fight, while I’m standing in my underwear in a locker room full of guys would not be my first choice. Hell, it wouldn’t be my tenth choice, but here I am.
Bam!
Kipson’s fist slams against the metal locker, mere inches from my head.
“Missed me,” I deadpan.
He earned this go at me, I’ll dance with him. Not that I’m going to let him get his satisfaction that easily. If anything, I might turn the tables on him. A good ass-kicking might do him some good and give him something new to whine about.
Same could be said about you.
“Leave me the fuck alone, Lee.”
“No,” I clap back. “You might not like it, but you play better angry. That’s why we won out there tonight.”
Anderson makes a half-assed “hey!” noise, mumbling to Pacholek about having something to do with us coming out ahead 3–1 against the Vortex.
“I’m always fucking angry!” Kipson roars.
“Not about the right thing!” I roar right back, pointing at him and then the ice. “Not in the right way! I’m trying to help you, motherfucker.”
“I don’t need your help.”
His rage is like a flash fire, igniting with the slightest spark, but dying quickly as the darkness he’s living in snuffs it out. The fight in him is waning, his voice going quieter when even he doesn’t believe his own lies.
I snort a humorless laugh. “If you think that’s true, you really do need help.
And I can tell you one thing for damn sure .
. .” I wait for his fury-filled eyes to lock on to me.
He can’t help it, he wants to know what’s on the stick I’m dangling in front of him.
“These guys don’t have your best interest at heart.
Shockingly, I do.” I point around the room at the team, who are loudly hooting and hollering as they celebrate tonight’s win, already making plans to hit the club for a nightcap.
“What the hell are you talking about? You don’t know shit, and you sure don’t know me.” He gives me a scathing up-and-down that would send a weaker man away with his tail between his legs.
I throw it right back at him. “I know that what they did to you was wrong, and neither you nor Sofia deserved that.”
That too-touchy target I should avoid tap-dancing on top of? Yeah, that was it.
“Keep my wife’s name out of your fucking mouth or so help me, I will—”
“What? Kick my ass?” I interrupt him to suggest, leaning in close so only he can hear me.
“So you keep saying. And do you think anyone in here would help you? Or help me? Or would they stand back and cheer us on while we destroyed each other?” We both know the answer.
This group would probably start taking bets on who would win, but none of them would actually care.
Not about me, which is understandable since we’ve just met.
But Kipson has been on this team for years and they should care about him.
But they don’t. “You think that makes a good team? You think they give a shit about you? I don’t even know you and I care more than these motherfuckers do. ”
He doesn’t want me to be right and spins on a heel, heading for his locker and trying to hide from the truth.
This team is rotten. Not from the ground up, but from the top down. Coach sets the tone, but the rest of the team has gone along with it for so long that the foundation of what a team should be has never properly developed.
I yank a pair of sweats over my underwear and pull a T-shirt over my head, letting Kipson pretend I’m not right. But as I throw my bag over my shoulder, I offer, “If you want to get a beer, let me know. If you need a fight to get your head straight, I’ll put that shit on my calendar too.”
He doesn’t glance up to state, “No.”
“We don’t have to be friends, but I’m stuck here for at least the season, and as far as I can tell, you might be the only decent human being on this team.”
At that, he does lift his chin, and I pointedly look around the locker room. He follows my gaze and I know what he sees . . .
Anderson is holding up his phone to show Sabine a close-up picture of someone’s cleavage while making a jacking-off motion with his other hand.
Pacholek is laughing along with them. There are other guys all around the room getting cleaned up and dressed, but each and every one of them is goofing off.
Not a single one of them is checked in to the drama between Kipson and me, his ongoing distress, or even rehashing the game we just drained ourselves to play.
It’s all shits and giggles playtime around here.
“This isn’t what a team is supposed to be like,” I state flatly. Before he can answer, I walk out of the locker room and to my truck. I don’t know if Kipson is salvageable. At this point, I don’t know if I am. Or at least my hockey career, which is basically the same thing.