40. Russ
CHAPTER 40
RUSS
If I were a paranoid man, I would think that Max has clocked that I ducked out of dinner last night just before he arrived. From the moment we arrived at the rink for practice, he’s been extra tense.
Malik seems aware of it, too, so maybe it’s actually about something he did or said after I left.
Or it might just be that Zondi sees through his bullshit because the entire short period of time he’s been on the team, Max has been on a sharp downward spiral emotionally. Where the rookies and young players from last year have carried over goodwill towards the captain for his star power and leadership, Malik only has the last five weeks to go on and it hasn’t been great.
It doesn’t help that I can’t even meet Max’s gaze for a second.
I thought I could keep a lid on my disdain for our captain, but now that I know he’s cheating on Shannon again, that he’s never been a faithful husband to her, it’s all I can do to keep my mouth shut when he strides in acting like he’s King Shit.
We have our team meeting first and go over the plan for the game tomorrow. One of the coaches takes us through video that shows pretty much what I’ve already read in the scouting report.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“Always be checking,” we say in unison.
“That’s right. Disrupt, disrupt, disrupt. We’re going to practice that today. If you’re not on the penalty kill team, go get dressed and hit the ice. PK guys, hang back because we have some more notes for you.”
I head for the dressing room because that doesn’t apply to me.
After quickly changing into this season’s practice gear, I hit the ice. Our jerseys lean hard into the bagpipe-playing wild boar aesthetic that I get no shortage of grief over from Scottish fans online.
Since I’m the first guy on the ice, I get to dump the bucket of buckets set out by our equipment guys, and I notice the practice pucks also have the bagpipe front and centre.
I wave over the PR intern. “Can you ask Mabel if I can say shite on the team’s TikTok account?”
He blanches.
I laugh. “Just ask her. Say, ‘I’m repeating this word for word because he told me to’.”
He laughs nervously. “Okay.”
By the time everyone else is on the ice, I’ve taken a ton of shots on net and I’m the good kind of warm, all loose and limber.
When we circle up around the coach, I stay on the other side of the group from Max—far enough away I can’t really hear him if he mutters anything, but unfortunately that also puts me in his line of sight.
Avoid, ignore.
I can feel him staring at me, and it starts to be a bit of a game.
Ignore, avoid, disrupt.
Then we get set up to run some checking drills.
The point of these in practice is to better anticipate how really good players will avoid getting checked. It’s not to give your teammate a jarring bone crunch the day before a game.
We set up in two groups at either end of the rink. At the whistle, two guys take off, as if one is on a breakaway and the other is the only person who can stop him.
Zondi manages to clip Marsh pretty good, enough that he loses the puck. Kieran gives Malik a high-five for the effort, and they switch ends. Hooner isn’t as lucky up against Connor, but Ty has some words of advice for Hayden just before they, too, switch ends.
Two by two, we run the drill. Tilman takes on Gustafsson just before I take on Watanabe.
“Well that’s not a fucking fair size match,” Hiro says goodnaturedly to me as I help him up off the ice after simply putting my body in front of his at the last second.
“You still managed to snap the puck back at the last second, which is all you can do if someone wants to brick wall you.”
“True.” He claps my arm as we switch.
The groups weren’t even numbers, so the last rush is two on one, and then we line up again.
This time, the lines get rejigged a bit. The two on one rush is done right at the top, and by the time it’s down to the last pair, it’s me at one end of the ice and Tilman at the other end.
The whistle goes and we take off. I’ve got the puck, and he’s going to check me. I keep my head up because I’m not an idiot, and sure enough, he’s putting on more speed than he did the first run through.
I brace for impact.
He twists at the last second, slamming up and in to try and make me go over his back in a brutal open ice hip check.
I don’t go flying, so he gets tangled up around my knees and then tries to scramble away.
Fuck that.
I hook him around the neck and haul him back.
He flicks his gloves off, and I’m not backing down from that, so mine go flying too. He makes a bare knuckle run at me, but before he can connect, our teammates are between us and I’m being pushed off the ice.
“All right, all right,” Marsh says, shoving me down the tunnel as I yell choice words back in Max’s direction.
“He’s a fucking clown,” I snap angrily.
“Be louder. I don’t think the entire press crew heard you,” he says mildly.
I swallow whatever was about to come out next.
Whoever has Tilman takes him somewhere other than the dressing room, so I have a minute to cool down with Marsh just watching me.
But then the doors swing open and it’s not Max, and it’s not the coach. It’s Dick Dorrian, the team’s general manager. And he comes in at top volume.
“What the actual fuck was that, Rusty?”
I stare at him, thinking silence is the safest response.
Marsh clears his throat. “Emotions are running high.”
“The season hasn’t even fucking started yet. I didn’t realize you were so fucking soft that losing two games that don’t have any fucking points attached to them would be such a fucking problem.” Every f-bomb is a verbal exclamation mark on his diatribe.
And I don’t fucking disagree with him. “I didn’t start it.”
Dorrian throws his hands up. “Oh! Well, then! The rest of your unprofessional bullshit is fine!” He spins around. “Why am I only yelling at one of you?”
Max strides in behind him, shrugging off Gusty and Connor. “We collided. It happens.”
“You fucking tried to table top me, asshole.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
Dorrian holds up his hands. “Shut the fuck up, Tiller. You too, Rusty. Get changed. Then my office.” He looks at our teammates. “ Emotions are as high as our expectations for the season. Nobody likes starting flat footed. We’re going to figure it out. That’s the message, understood? Even better if I don’t read a word of this on Twitter, but that’s probably already too fucking late.”
And then he stalks out.
Nobody moves.
“For the record, I said the emotions are high line first,” Marsh says dryly.
There are a few chuckles, but Max and I aren’t laughing.
“You fucking overreact to everything,” he mutters, glaring at me.
Goading me.
And I have fucking had it. “Is that how you justify it to yourself? You’re telling yourself that the big guy overreacted to you slamming into me? You can’t not lie, can you? Even to yourself.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
No, I won’t be doing that. “You were already mad when you gunned it. You’ve been mad at me for weeks now, and you can’t seem to keep that under wraps, so let’s do this. Let’s work out these feelings where you’re the one who overreacts to everything. What’s wrong, Tiller?” He doesn’t answer, and I pace closer.
“Come on, bud,” Marsh says, trying to stop me.
I swat him away. I’ll apologize for that later, but it’s beyond time for Max and I to have it out once and for all.
“Cat got your tongue?” I shove Tilman in the chest and lower my voice to a growl. “Teammate got your wife?”
He swings first, just like he did on the ice.
But this time, nobody is between us. I swing last, and that’s all that matters.