Chapter 27 Briar
Briar
“Where’s the little guy?” Penny asks, leaning in my direction.
I don’t have to glance at the seat next to me to know it’s empty.
Harley was supposed to come with me tonight, but I asked Trina to come over and babysit him because I’m expecting a showdown with my dad.
Harley had been disappointed at first, but when I told him that I had something to handle, he’d settled quickly.
I suspect he might’ve heard some of the conversation between me and Dom this morning.
“Stayed home,” I bite out.
Narrowing my eyes, I stare at my dad from our seats halfway up the lower bowl. He doesn’t know I’m here and likely doesn’t feel my glare amid the packed arena, but it makes me feel better to shoot some laser beams of anger his way.
“Ohh-kay, Grumpypants,” Penny drawls. “Leaving that alone, are we gonna talk about why some kid I’ve never heard of is warming up with Dom? Or is that gonna be a no too?”
I sigh, turning to her. “I’m sorry. I’m mad at my dad, but I shouldn’t take that out on you.”
She holds up her hands in surrender, smiling.
“We’re good. Just tell me why we’re mad so I can hex him correctly too.
Are we talking ‘hope you accidentally fill up your gas tank with diesel every time you go to the gas station’ or ‘feel the pain of a thousand needles pricking your asshole 24-7’?
Ooh, or maybe the crowd favorite, ‘his dick falls off and chases him’?
” She makes a wormlike scrunch and unscrunch motion with her hand.
“You know, like the snail that kills you if he catches you?”
I can’t help but laugh the tiniest bit at her level of unhinged creativity. “Thanks, I think I needed that.” She wiggles her shoulders, happy to be of assistance. “Okay, so here’s the deal . . .”
I go through what Dominic told me earlier today about my dad’s ultimatum, finishing with Dom telling Dad to fuck off.
Penny pales. “He did not!”
Nodding, I say, “Oh yes, he did. Hence, riding the pine.” I point at Dominic, who has taken a spot on the bench far, far, far away from my dad.
There’s at least five guys between them acting as buffers, but even they seem unsure how this is going to go, their eyes occasionally bouncing from their coach to Dom, back and forth.
Everyone stands for announcements and the national anthem, and then the announcer shouts, “Let’s play hockey!” As the crowd cheers and players take their positions, Penny and I watch one particular player.
“I haven’t seen him on a bench in ages. Probably since his rookie year.
Even when his line’s not in the rotation, he’s the sort of guy who stands the whole time, for goodness’ sake,” Penny says in disgusted wonder.
She tilts her head. “Well, unless you count the penalty box bench. He’s in the sin bin often enough, he needs that theme song—”
I don’t say a word as Penny sings a line from “You Wish” by Flyana Boss.
She isn’t half bad honestly. I’m just staring at Dominic, his jaw is clenched and his eyes locked on Tomville, who’s on first line tonight.
When the rookie glances at Dominic for assurance, Dom gives him a curt head nod.
Even with things going astray, Dom is supporting his teammate.
The puck drops and play starts.
Well, in theory it does. But if Dominic and Kipson were going easy on the Hawks last night, tonight’s play is downright .
. . mild. I think Harley could get past Pacholek and Sabine, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Kipson went so far as to accidentally fall down on the ice so Harley could attempt a shot with how he’s playing.
The only Blizzard player . . . and I do mean only one .
. . who seems to be playing hard is Anderson, who is blocking more shots in the first half of this period than he typically blocks in an entire game.
“What’re they doing?” a guy shouts from a few seats away. He’s almost ripping his thinning hairline out by the roots as he stares at the ice in confusion.
“Fuck if I know,” another guy responds. “Come on, Blizzard! Get it together!”
Penny and I watch in horrified awe. We know how good these guys are and how hard they’ve worked to get to this level. Why would they throw it away?
“Look,” Penny whispers, pointing at the team bench.
There are two men absolutely losing their shit. One, my dad, who is yelling loudly at the guys on the ice, and two, Dominic, who is doing the same thing, but seems to be mostly focused on Tomville. Reading his lips, I think he’s telling him, “This is your shot! Don’t fuck it up!”
Dad calls something and the lines rotate out, some coming to the bench and others hitting the ice. But it seems that every line is doing the same thing, no matter what rotation tinkering Dad tries. The Blizzard are just . . . existing, not playing.
By the end of the first period, the score is Hawks 2, Blizzard 0.
As the players go back to the locker room, Penny and I lock eyes. “What is happening?”
A guy in front of us turns around, answering the question that we didn’t ask him. “They’re choking. That’s what’s happening. Fucking losers.” He looks back at the ice—the empty ice, mind you—and jeers loudly. “Booooo! Blizzard sucks!” He grins back at us like he did something cool.
Penny leans forward, her face filled with anger as she demands, “You think you could do any better?” The guy tries to scoff out a yes, but Penny doesn’t let him speak.
“Let me guess, you’re a big shot in the late-night beer league you play in.
Talking shit about how you could’ve gone pro if you’d wanted to while drinking way too many brews with your bros every week.
Am I right?” She points at the stack of already-empty plastic cups in front of him.
The guy’s grin falls, replaced with pain from the too-on-target shot Penny took. “Fuck you, bitch.”
“You wish,” she snipes. When the guy turns back to the ice, she looks at me innocently. “What?”
“Now I understand why Dom says you need protection,” I note, amused and impressed. She’s definitely Dom’s sister. “You’re gonna get yourself beat up in here.”
She shrugs with a cocky smirk that looks shockingly reminiscent of her brother’s.
“I have two monstrous defensemen and an actual mob boss in my phone contacts. What’s Kyle gonna do?
” She cuts her eyes to the guy in front of us, who definitely seems to be not-listening to us and definitely not-interjecting into our conversation now.
“What are we going to do?” I ask, not sure there’s anything we can do. This is the Blizzard’s fight and we’re stuck in the bleachers.
“This,” she says, holding up a hand. “Popcorn, please.”
Which is how we end up watching the second period—anxiously shoveling popcorn into our mouths by the handful as the game devolves even further.
Every time the jumbotron screen shows a close-up of Dad, he looks on the verge of a heart attack, his face tomato red and a vein bulging in his forehead.
Tomville is actually playing now so Dominic has quit shouting at him, but the rest of the team is playing in slow motion and is completely unaggressive.
Even Anderson is slowing down, though I think his speed is related to exhaustion, not any team solidarity.
They might as well be renamed the Sloths.
With two minutes remaining in the second period and the Blizzard down 4–1 now, I turn to Penny. “We have to do something.”
“Whatcha got in mind?” she asks, her eyes bright with excitement.
“Come on.” I grab her hand and pull her from her seat.
“Think this will work?” she whispers a few minutes later.
It took some slippery maneuvers past a few security guards, and a little bit of tossing our names in people’s faces, but we’ve managed to get down to the lower hallways where the locker room area is. There’s just one more guard to get past.
“Hey . . .” I glance at the guard’s left chest, hoping to see his name tag, but there’s just an embroidered label that says “Security.” “You,” I drawl with a smile. “I’m Briar Johns, Coach Boothe’s daughter.”
He chuckles, unconvinced. “Coach Boothe doesn’t have kids. Think he’s on his fifth or sixth wife.”
“Fourth,” I correct. “Vanessa.”
He snaps his fingers, nodding. “Oh yeah. That one’s sticking around longer than usual. But he’ll be on wifey five before long. He always is.” But he pins me with a stare. “No kids, though, so move along,” he orders, pointing back down the hallway we came from.
“Did you know Griffin Mahoney signs autographs again?” Penny asks casually. She turns, moving her hair to show the guard the signature on her jersey. Griffin didn’t sign autographs for years, so anything he has signed is an extremely valuable collector’s item.
“Damn,” he whistles. “How’d you get that?”
“I’m Penny Lee. Dominic Lee’s sister and Griffin Mahoney’s wife. You might’ve seen them fighting on the ice last season because of little ol’ me?” She frames her face with her hands like she was the one on the jumbotron.
He eyes her a bit more carefully. “Yeah, yeah . . . I did see that. I think everyone saw that,” he laughs. “I think your brother won that one.”
“How about a little trade? I’ll give you this jersey if you let her in the locker room.” She rushes to add, “No psycho puck bunnies here, I promise. She really is Coach Boothe’s daughter. She’s also Dominic Lee’s girlfriend.”
“Wait, wait . . . what? Is that what all the yelling in there’s been about?” he asks, leaning toward us. Gossip is apparently the great unifier. “I heard something about that. Walls aren’t that thick, you know?”
Nodding, I spill the tea right back. “I’m Robert Boothe’s daughter. I’m dating Dominic Lee. Look.” I hold up my phone, showing him a picture of me and Dad. I’m about thirteen or fourteen, but it’s still obviously us. And then I swipe to show him a picture of me, Harley, and Dominic.
He seems convinced, but shakes his head. “Still can’t let you in. Sorry.”
“Hey!” Penny shouts suddenly.
The guard and I both look at her, but her jersey hits the guard square in the face.
She shoos me with a wave, telling me to go through the door.
Quickly, I do, letting it shut behind me.
On the other side of the door, I hear loud footsteps as the guard chases Penny down the hallway. “Come back here!”
I get it. I absolutely understand why Dom and Griffin think she needs protection. But goodness, I love her and appreciate her self-sacrifice to get me in here.
This part, I’ll have to do alone.