Chapter 13 Dominic
Dominic
I’m not surprised. Well, not about who didn’t show up to my open invitation for a pre–opening game dinner at Big Boy Bowls. But maybe about who did—Mike Kipson.
He looks from me to Rodney to Tomville and then to the door behind him. He’s thinking of bailing. It’s written in every tense muscle, his downturned mouth, and the way he’s fidgeting with the car keys that are still in his hand.
Thankfully, that’s the moment Pacholek opens the door behind him, boxing him in. “Hey, fellas! We eating or not?”
“You guys know what to do,” I tell Rodney and Tomville. They instantly queue up to order, remembering the advice I gave them last time.
“You want your usual?” Rodney calls back to me and I nod.
Kipson looks at me questioningly.
“We went out to eat during training camp. Figured we were all new in town and might as well get to know each other.”
His brow furrows as he stares at me. “You just invited them out?” I nod. “And invited everyone out tonight?”
“You’re buying your own,” I clarify with a shit-eating grin. “This ain’t a date and I’m no gentleman.”
“Fuck off,” he growls. But as he pushes past me to get in line, he’s fighting a teeny-tiny hint of a smile. He’d disagree, but I see it . . . right there at the corners of his mouth. They’re approximately 3 percent less frowny than they were when he came in.
“You like playing with fire?” Pacholek asks wonderingly, watching the interaction between me and Kipson.
“Only thing I like better is playing with my dick,” I joke. More seriously, I tell him, “Glad you came, man,” as I clap him on the back and let him go in front of me in line.
We get our food and find a table, no small feat for five large-framed athletes. And we dig in. I even steal a bite of Pacholek’s carnitas, grinning at him when he tries to stab my hand, but he snaps the tines on his plastic fork before breaking my skin.
“I . . . am . . . Iron Man,” I taunt before doing the classic guitar riff.
Pacholek rolls his eyes. “I literally got you, it’s just a weak-ass fork,” he complains, staring at the new gap in the utensil.
“I gotchu.” I hop up, grab him a new one, and make a quick stop at the register to ask for a side of the carnitas for the table. As I sit back down, I groan, “That shit’s delicious.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why I got it,” Pacholek quips.
He quits complaining when a worker drops off a bowl with a big scoop of guacamole along with the pork, definitely more than a side, on our table. “Truce?”
“Fucker.”
But all is forgiven when the rest of the guys try it. It even turns into a taste test competition—chicken versus carnitas versus steak. Personally, I think they’re all winners.
Even as we all goof off, Kipson stays mostly quiet, watching it all play out in front of him like we’re a show he’s tuned in to but not a part of. But eventually, narrowed eyes locked on me, he spits out, “What are you doing?”
Shoveling another bite—of my own chicken this time—into my mouth, I ask, “What?”
He tilts his head, glare going even colder. “Don’t act innocent. What game are you playing?”
Okay, we’re doing this, I guess.
I set my fork down, wipe my mouth with a napkin, and turn off my Good-Natured Guy persona in favor of coldly glaring right back.
“Eating dinner with my teammates before a game.” He’s not buying it.
Not that I’m doing much to sell the idea that this is a no-big-deal meal out between friends.
“Tell me, what do you usually do the night before a game, especially the season opener? Where do you think the rest of the team is tonight? What are they doing?”
“Not singing ‘Kumbaya’ with assholes they barely know,” he answers.
Rodney sits back in his chair, hurt. Tomville takes a too-big bite, angry. Pacholek sighs.
This fight doesn’t involve them. Well, it does in a larger way, but they have enough sense to let Kipson and me do our dick-measuring without interference.
“That’s the bullshit I’m talking about,” I tell him.
“The Hawks aren’t perfect by any means. We’d fight and give each other shit like it was our jobs.
We even had a guy who helicoptered his dick in the locker room so many times we started calling him Chopper.
But any one of those guys? I’d show up for them in a heartbeat and they’d do the same for me.
I don’t get the sense that’s how the Blizzard operates.
” I pause for a moment, giving him a chance to argue, but I’m right and we both know it. “But it could be.”
Taking a deep breath, I launch into my spiel, not just for Kipson but for everyone.
“Look, player for player, I see y’all on the ice.
This is the most skilled team, individually, that I’ve ever played on.
I saw that last year, too, in the Cup Finals.
But that’s the problem. You play as six individuals out there.
We beat your ass because we played as a team.
A team needs a leader, a fucking captain.
You’re the one with a C on your shoulder, Mike. So act like one.”
I’m basically throwing not only my hand on the table, but the whole fifty-two-card deck.
“Fuck you,” he snarls. He crosses his arms over his chest in classic defensive posturing.
I keep my attention locked on Kipson as I say, “Rodney, anybody on the team asked you shit about where you came from, what your experience is, if you got a place to stay, or anything else?”
He huffs out a mirthless laugh. “No. Well, you, but other than that, no.”
Kipson rolls his eyes.
“How about you, Tomville? Anybody but Coach know you were an enforcer that took out four players in a single game and were the reason your team won your conference championship and got them to the Frozen Four?”
“Nope,” he answers, shaking his head.
“Damn, kid,” Pacholek says, impressed. He holds a fist up and Tomville bumps it with a dawning grin.
“That right there is why I’m doing this,” I inform Kipson. “What happened to you sucks. So yeah, Captain, being thrown off your rocker is understandable. But it isn’t a singular issue. This whole team needs to learn how to be a fucking team.”
“And you think you’re gonna teach us?” he snaps.
“I don’t want to be captain,” I say preemptively, cutting that concern off at the knees. “But are you gonna do it? Be my guest,” I invite, throwing an arm wide. “Maybe it’d give you something to do other than cry into your pillow at night.”
“Fuck you.”
He says that every time I make a valid point that he can’t counter. Still, I’m right on the edge of going too far, but that’s where I need to go if I want Kipson to wake up to what’s happening around him.
“Do you want to know what Anderson told me that night at O’Neal’s?”
He presses his lips together, refusing to say yes.
“He was celebrating that your wife left you. His exact words were ‘thank fuck’ that she’s gone, and Sabine declared the Blizzard a ‘clean house.’ Apparently, the team likes to keep things casual only. Anything else is a distraction. Sound familiar?”
It’s the first time Kipson doesn’t only hear me, but actually listens. Furious, he turns to Pacholek and demands, “Anderson and Sabine said that shit?”
“Uh—”
He squeezes his fork so hard, the plastic snaps in half between his fingers. “I’m gonna kill them.”
I nod, agreeing. “Good plan. In the meantime, we have a game tomorrow night and a whole damn season to play. It’d be cool if we could do it as an actual team that gives a shit about each other. What do you say?”
I hold my hand out. Kipson’s glare jumps from my eyes to my hand and back again. “Fuck you, Lee. I’m outta here.”
With that, he pushes back from the table and stomps to the door.
“That went well,” I say, deadpan.
“What the hell, man?” Pacholek gripes. “You trying to implode the whole damn team? Are you that pissed you got traded?”
Yes. But also, maybe no.
“Maybe it needs to implode,” I suggest. I lean his way, eyes hard. “So we can build it back better.”
He shakes his head, unconvinced. “I get that the Hawks won the Cup last year, but it’s not like we’re some bottom of the barrel team. We’re not just good, we’re great, and don’t need the Great Dominic Lee to fix us.”
“Except that’s literally why I was brought here, isn’t it?” I counter.
“No. Fix Kipson. Leave the rest of us out of it.” With that, he gets up, too, heading for the door.
“You two got something to say?” I ask Rodney and Tomville, staying composed.
“Nope,” Rodney replies.
“Can I have the carnitas?” Tomville asks. “Somebody told me I need to pack on a few pounds and that shit’s delicious.”
“Yeah,” I say with a small huff of laughter. “Have at it, man.”
Tomville grabs the bowl and eats the remaining pork in a few bites.
“I see it,” Rodney tells me. “What you’re talking about.
” I realize I’ve been staring at the door like Kipson or Pacholek might walk back through it, but at Rodney’s statement, I look his way.
“I moved my senior year of high school. Left a school with a great record, for another that only had a good one. You wanna know why?”
I raise my brows curiously.
“Vibes. If I’d stayed, I don’t think I would’ve made it through the year.” He drops his chin, “Not only playing hockey.”
And that’s it. This sport is our life. As athletes and as men. We give our time, blood, sweat, and tears to it. It becomes who we are at our core. And being surrounded by good people creates an environment where everyone thrives.
“Hit me up anytime, man. Any. Time. For anything. To shoot the shit or go eat or grab a beer. Whatever. I gotchu,” I vow.
He nods. “Thanks.”
“Me too,” Tomville tells Rodney.
That’s the start. The thread of connection starting to wind through players. I hope I can grow it to include the whole team, but even if I fail there, this tiny spark is enough for tonight.
“Alright, guys. You know the drill for tonight. Shit, relax, jack off, and then hit the bed.”
“Yes, sir,” they reply.