14. Fucking Duster
FUCKING DUSTER
PARKER
The penalty box has been calling my name all night, just sitting there like it’s waiting for me to warm the bench with the sizzling heat practically exuding from my entire body.
There’s a very high chance I’m waking up in the morning with my entire right side covered in bruises, and I have no one to blame but myself for giving in to Pittsburgh’s star center and my personal enemy, Marcus Grady.
It’s his first game back since his one-game suspension and the guy is just chomping at the bit, drooling at the thought of getting his hands on his next victim.
Unlike most civilized players who don’t let things go too far, Grady has been an absolute menace tonight.
he man could give two fucking shits about a suspension.
Normally, my head is in the game, blocking out any personal issues the moment I throw my bucket on.
Tonight is an exception, because I’m painfully aware that Anders thinks I hate him after being distant and giving him the cold shoulder.
It’s not his fault, but he sure acts like he’s carrying all the guilt when I should be the one forced to deal with everything that happened.
It’s been eating at me all week. To make matters worse, I’m being stared down by Grady and his beady little rat eyes.
I swear they’re red in certain lighting.
The moment he picks a fight with Vandy, the game turns into an absolute gongshow.
The kid manages to give Grady a nice little facewash, but an official sends Vandy to the sin bin, apparently he was the one who incited the whole thing.
As his captain, I should tell him he needs to have better sportsmanship.
As his mentor, I’m most definitely buying the kid a beer when this shit show is over.
Grady skates right up to me during the next play and attempts to check me into the boards. “The kid had it coming,” he chirps, attempting to rile me up.
“Fuck off, chach,” I mutter sharply. “Acting real chippy for a guy with some fucking stone hands.”
He lets out a cold chuckle. “Says the oldest pigeon in the league.”
The moment I find a small window of time, I kronwall him right against the boards. The glass rattles as the crowd goes wild. Rogers skates right up next to me to pull me back, but I’m just as bad as Grady tonight.
Grady throws his mitts while more of our guys flock over, including Pitt’s resident goon, Henry Richmond, who has no problem leaving his post to intervene. He and Gallant really get into it, so intense that Grady and I reach a temporary stalemate in order to break their fight up.
We almost even hug. Almost.
“Not worth it,” I tell Rogers.
“Dude’s a fucking duster. Can’t play for shit.” Rogers shouts it loud enough for Richmond to hear.
The four of us are all sent to the sin bin, quickly becoming the biggest crowd pleaser at the sight of a bunch of veteran players being sent to timeout like complete rooks.
Throughout the rest of the night, Coach Matthias runs through the roster, making subs when she thinks another fight will ensue. I get called back in, passing Rogers as he replaces me right on the fly.
“What the hell is your problem tonight?” Matty shouts when I take the bench. “You of all people should not be picking fights on the ice. That’s not how a leader is supposed to act.”
“You’re right,” I mutter. “My bad.”
Don’t get me wrong—I respect the hell out of my coach.
She’s the third female head coach in the entire league, and has four Olympic gold medals under her belt.
Matty knows her shit better than the rest of us do, but it’s kind of hard to take her seriously when she’s on some sort of rampage where her only volume is yelling.
Probably pregnancy hormones considering she’s a few months away from popping twin boys out.
If anyone can handle motherhood, it’s Solvi Matthias.
She runs this team like it’s the navy, and I would expect nothing less when it comes to raising her boys.
“Sure fuckin’ is,” she tells me sharply. “You idiots are dangerously close to sending me into early labor. Are you ready to deliver twins, Morozov?”
“No ma’am,” I chuckle, loosening up a bit.
“I’m keeping you out for the rest of the game. Your head’s not in it tonight.”
“I’m fine, Coach. Really.”
She shakes her head. “No you’re not.”
I don’t find it in me to argue.
I’ve had at least six beers tonight, which is usually the exact point where I stop pretending I enjoy socializing and disappear before anyone can corner me into another conversation about hockey or golf.
Most of the older guys have already gone upstairs to call their wives and kids like responsible adults.
I’m fully prepared to join them, but then Vandy catches me right before I escape. “Going to bed,” I tell him immediately, already backing away from the table with my room key in hand.
“Cap,” he laughs, reaching out to grab my forearm. “Come look at this. It’s fucking hilarious.”
“I don’t trust you when you say that.”
“You shouldn’t,” is all he says before he drags me anyway.
The younger guys are crowded around a corner booth littered with empty baskets of wings and sweating beer bottles. Vandy and Graham Livingston are shoulder to shoulder, both staring down at a phone like they’re dissecting classified government files instead of hockey Twitter.
They’ve barely tolerated each other since Livingston got traded to us three weeks ago.
“You should see what people are saying about your fight,” Vandy says, grinning as he shoves the phone toward me. “Everyone fucking hates Grady now.”
“Wonderful.”
“There’s already edits of you breaking his nose,” Rogers adds.
“You children need hobbies.”
Vandy snorts into his drink.
I hand the phone back. “Anyway. Bed.”
“No sleepover?” he asks dramatically. “C’mon, Cap. We’ll watch movies. Malloy bought popcorn. Rogers wants to show you Shrek because apparently he thinks you’ve never seen it.”
“You haven’t seen Shrek?” Livingston asks, genuinely horrified for the first time since joining the team.
“I’ve seen Shrek,” I say.
“He’s lying,” Rogers says immediately.
“I am not.”
“You asked me if Donkey was the horse.”
“That was taken entirely out of context!”
The table erupts. For a second, the tension loosens. Even Livingston laughs a little under his breath before catching himself.
The conversation spirals for a minute after that, bouncing between chirping and arguments the way hockey locker rooms always do. Half-affection, half-psychological warfare.
Then Livingston makes the mistake of opening Twitter again. “Oh my God,” he groans suddenly. “Can’t catch a fucking break.”
Malloy immediately starts laughing.
Vandy actually claps his hands together. “Pull it up. Lemme see.”
“I already apologized,” Livingston argues. “What else do people want from me?”
“You posted a notes app apology,” Rogers says.
“It was PR’s idea!”
“Damn. That somehow makes it worse,” Malloy snorts.
Livingston drags a hand through his hair. “Can we not do this tonight?” he says sharply.
“Or what?” Rogers presses. “You gonna repost that red pill shit again?”
I close my eyes briefly. Of fucking course.
“Oh, hop off my dick,” Livingston snaps. “It was one stupid repost.”
“Brother,” Vandy says, voice flattening slightly, “people on the internet are ruthless. Note app apologies are worse than not saying anything at all.”
Livingston opens his mouth, then shuts it.
Guys say ugly shit in locker rooms all the time.
Most of the time nobody corrects it until suddenly everyone is angry and nobody understands why.
It doesn’t excuse it, but I understand where Livingston’s confusion comes from.
Unfortunately for him, Rogers is absolutely the wrong bear to poke tonight.
Especially because Vandy is the world’s biggest pot-stirrer.
“You know what your problem is?” Vandy asks quietly.
Livingston lets out a cynical laugh. “Here we go. Let’s hear what Robbie has to say.”
“No one is gonna believe you if you don’t believe it yourself.”
Livingston’s jaw tightens. “You don’t know shit,” he says.
“Okay,” I cut in firmly, planting a hand on the table. “That’s enough.”
Livingston looks at me like he wants backup, but he’s not getting it.
“You don’t get to say reckless shit and then act surprised when people react badly,” I tell him evenly. “Every guy on this team knows how important public image is. Private your shit so it doesn’t happen again.”
He raises both hands innocently. “Alright. Damn.”
“Alright,” I say sharply. “Good. We’re done with it.” I look directly at Livingston. “You don’t have to agree with everybody personally,” I tell him. “But you do have to respect the room. That’s part of being on a team. You understand me?”
His jaw flexes. “Yeah.”
“Good.” Then I turn to Vandy and Rogers. “And you two,” I say, softer now, “stop trying to provoke him every chance you get.”
Vandy fakes an offended look. “I’m literally delightful.”
“You’re a fucking menace.”
Livingston mutters something under his breath and starts walking off toward the elevators. The second he’s gone, Rogers exhales loudly.“Well,” he says. “That was deeply uncomfortable.”
“You guys don’t help,” I mutter. "You just make shit worse.”
Vandy leans against my shoulder for half a second like an overgrown little brother before straightening again. “You still love me though.”
“Ehh. Love’s a strong word.”
“You’d fight someone for me.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling now despite myself.
“Important question,” he says solemnly. “Does this mean the sleepover is a go?”
“Oh my God,” I groan.
"Hey!" Malloy points at Vandy. “He said if Robbie gets two hat tricks this season we can all stay over and watch Shrek.”
“I did not say that.”
“You implied it spiritually. I felt it in my heart to be true.”
“I hate all of you.”
“That’s not a no,” Rogers says smugly.
I shake my head and start backing toward the elevators before they can rope me into another hour downstairs.
Behind me, Vandy calls out, “Goodnight, Big P.!”
“I’m trading you tomorrow,” I yell back without turning around.
His laughter follows me all the way to the elevator doors.