Chapter 22 Theo
Theo
Cordon is on the ice for the first face-off.
Callan and I are on the bench. He’s a winger, and his center wins the puck and immediately passes it to Cordon.
That leads to a flurry of activity in our zone, not at all what anyone on our team wants, less than a minute into the game.
But Grady is a wall, and despite three shots on him in the first three minutes, nothing gets in.
We definitely have zero momentum, though, and that’s never the way to start a game.
We end up with an icing call, which means we can’t change lines, and I’m itching to get out there.
As soon as we win the face-off, Coach yells something that could be “go” or just a grunt of frustration, but it’s a cue nonetheless.
Callan and I hop over the boards as the other D-men hop off the ice.
Cordon isn’t on the ice, unfortunately, because man, do I want to check him into oblivion.
I manage to harness that energy enough to make it useful and check a different player, all legal and clean, and get him to give up the puck, which Conner sweeps up and successfully makes his way down the ice.
With a quick pass to Landon that the Thunder goalie wasn’t expecting, we draw first blood.
When that lamp lights up, I roar like it’s the fucking playoffs and skate over and hug Landon and Conner.
“Wicked work on the boards, T.” Conner knocks his helmet into mine.
We stay on for the face-off, but the Thunder switch their lines, and that’s how I find myself on the ice with Cordon.
When one of our forwards accidentally turns over the puck, and he ends up with it, I have every right to chase him down and rail him into the boards.
It’s my job, after all. The boom his body makes as it hits the boards and glass rattles through me.
I turn to skate away, but there’s a whistle on the play, an offside, so I slow and glide toward where the face-off will be. He skates up beside me.
“That wasn’t necessary, dude.” I look over at him. He’s got a passive, almost friendly expression.
“It’s hockey, which is a full-contact sport, dude.” I give him a half-shrug.
“It was a little too aggressive, dude.”
I stop in my spot for the face-off and level him with the cockiest smirk I own. “I can’t help it if karma uses me as its instrument. Dude.”
“What does that even mean?” he asks, his blue eyes swimming in confusion.
I don’t answer. The puck drops. Thunder gets possession, and as soon as it hits Cordon’s stick, I crush him again.
We’re not near the boards, so he goes flying backward, right off his feet, and lands in a heap on the ice.
I get the puck and skate away, passing it to Callan, who takes it farther up the ice much faster than I could.
Kid is the fastest defenseman I’ve ever seen.
He passes it off, and we head for the bench, our shift over, which is great because I am gassed.
The bench is in front of me, and the next thing I see is the ice coming up at me fast. I spin to land on my back.
The wind gets knocked right out of me, and I’m face-up on the ice, my helmet bangs heavy against the hard surface, making my teeth rattle.
I bounce up as fast as I can and find Cordon glaring at me.
“Ry fuck off.” I hear Callan say as he glides to the bench, but not over it.
“You still doing some Zen Buddha shit, Richard?” He says my name the English way, like it’s a male first name and not the correct way, which, because it’s French, has a soft ch that sounds like sh.
I get that a lot from American players and sportscasters, and normally I’m not bothered, but…
it bothers me now. “Not fighting when it’s literally all you used to be good at. ”
I skate right at him. “Don’t know about that. I looked pretty good stripping your sorry ass of the puck earlier.” He shoves me back, and I drop my stick and flick my hands so my gloves go flying. “As for fighting, for you I’ll make an exception.”
I grab the front of his jersey and clock him with a strong left. It knocks his helmet off. I hear a whistle somewhere and get bumped by Callan, who is now tussling with another Thunder player. Cordon swings and misses. “Why are you such a fucking prick, Richard?”
“Why did you go talk to her tonight, asshole?” I swing and miss. “She’s not yours anymore.”
He pulls back a little, but I keep a grip on his jersey, and then he swings.
It glances off my chin. Not enough to do more than leave a weak bruise, I think.
The force he puts into the swing has him tilting, and I use it to my advantage as I feel a linesman grab my shoulder to break it up and get Ryan fucking Cordon around the neck. We drop to the ice in a heap.
“What the fuck are you…” Ryan yells, then his voice drops. “Lola? Is that your baby with… Lola?”
“What? No. That’s Landon’s baby,” I bark out.
“Up, boys. Now!” The linesman tugs on the back of my jersey, and I struggle to my feet.
Ryan glares at me. There’s a bit of blood on his jersey, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. A lump is already forming on his chin, and there’s a bluish tinge to his cheek where I connected first, but no cut. “But you’re with her?”
“Keep your gaslighting ass away from her,” I spit out, blatantly ignoring his question as I skate toward him again, but the linesman yanks me back. “She’s better than you.”
He looks equal parts confused and fuming. “Whatever. Fuck off, asshole.”
I turn to the ref. “He started it.”
“Yeah, well, you both look guilty to me,” he mutters and shakes his head.
“Go get stitched up, and then you can sit your ass in the box, Richard. For five.”
“Five?”
He points. “Do you want a game?”
I snap my mouth shut and touch my face. My fingers come away wet.
The blood on his jersey was mine. Apparently, that glancing blow Cordon managed broke skin.
Fuck. I hate when that happens. Now it won’t look like I won.
I get to the bench, and one of the trainers hands me a towel.
“Callan, sit in the box for Theo. Our resident thug.”
Coach winks at me. Callan jumps over the boards to serve my penalty as I waddle on my skates down the tunnel to the medic room.
It’s a teeny laceration that only needs butterfly tape to hold it together, and then I’m back in time to see us score on the four-on-four (because Cordon also got five).
On my first shift back, he’s out there too, so I do what I do best. Chirp.
“You like the weather in Ohio?” I call out as we line up for the face-off after our goal.
“What the fuck? I’ve never been to Ohio, asshole,” he barks back.
“It’s where the Thunder’s farm team is,” I tell him helpfully. “And if I were the coach, I’d be sending you there after tonight.”
“Bite me, Richard.”
“No, thank you. You probably taste the same as you smell—like moldy cheese.”
Later in the game, I tell him he’s got the skinniest legs in the league.
I ask him if he fits in his little sister’s figure skates because his feet look small, like his hands.
And his brain. I tell him he’s the reason God created middle fingers.
All my old chirps come flying out of my mouth every time I’m in earshot of the dickhead.
My teammates are grinning and snickering, and their game is elevated with their moods.
Even some of the Thunder players are having trouble hiding their smiles.
By the third, when we’re up 4 to 1, they put him out there against me again. I smile at him, and he scowls. “Hey, Cordon!” I say as we wait for a TV timeout to end. “Do your parents know you’re living proof two wrongs don’t make a right?”
“Hey, Ry! What the fuck did you do to unleash full-metal-Richard?” His teammate Cappernique asks Cordon.
“I haven’t done shit,” Ryan says, still scowling at me.
“He treats women like shit,” I call out. “And I’m a feminist, so I don’t tolerate that bullshit.”
“He’s got a thing for my ex, apparently,” Ryan grumbles, and I stop skating away. I know I can’t skate closer to the bench because it will start a war, and the refs will blame me. But I don’t skate away.
“The ex you gaslighted and treated like garbage?”
“I was a fucking teenager.”
“I was one once, too, but I wasn’t a piece of shit.”
“No, you were too drunk, probably,” Cappernique calls out in his heavy French Canadian accent.
“Richard, go skate somewhere else for fuckssake,” the ref barks out, gliding to a halt in between me and the Thunder bench. He glares, so I know he’s truly sick of my shit tonight.
I don’t want to take any unnecessary penalties, so I blow the Thunder bench a kiss and start to skate away. But they aren’t done. Cappernique uses his native language to his advantage, knowing I’ll understand, but the American ref won’t.
In French, he yells, “Heroes don’t out people, Richard, you're drunk.”
I bristle. I don’t feel as much anger as I do shame, but then I hear someone answer him in a menacing growl, calling out in French, “You refuse to wear a pride jersey, Cappernique, so I’ll take Richard as an ally over you any day.
Now shut your fucking hole, or someone might stick their dick in it. ”
“Everyone stop with the French, or I’ll give you all penalties,” the ref yells, and I skate toward the person who spoke up—Xavier Gagne.
He’s leaning on the boards in front of our bench, looking like he’s waiting for a late bus. I come to a stop beside him. “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “What are teammates for?”
He smiles, and I smile back.