Page 143 of I'm Your Guy
I blink, and the moment is over. Orloff is skating off to defend his zone. Newgate does the same, but his face is the color of a beet.
That’s when I understand what handsy means. It means a violation. No matter that there’s a lot of padding between the other player and my teammate’s junk. No matter that nobody is injured.
It’s just gross to be grabbed. And sometimes humiliation is worse than a punch to the face.
I’ve had both, so I would know.
Within seconds, my sweat cools into beads of ice. Now I understand their strategy. It’s fucking twisted and so fucking personal. Cold shame washes down my spine.
“Pay attention, DiCosta!” Hale chirps from the goal. It’s his first start for Colorado.
I look up just in time to receive the pass but get stripped a second later, because I’m distracted.
Hale curses and braces for trouble.
Kapski saves the day, getting his stick on the puck and slipping it to Stoney. We’re back in the hunt, for a minute anyway. Our forwards try to make some magic, sneaking the puck back to Newgate, who sets up a shot.
I flick my gaze from the puck to see Newgate taking another hit. This time he ends up underneath two Trenton players.
The whistle blows, because Trenton’s goalie has the puck in his glove. The fallen players pick themselves up off the ice.
But it takes a minute. And Newgate rises slowly. Very slowly.
Shit.
We both head for the bench as Hessler and Doughey skate out to replace us. “What happened?” I demand as Newgate eases himself down on the bench.
“Nothing,” he growls. Then he blows out a heavy breath.
“Christ, are you hurt?” Powers asks. “One of ’em shielded the other one, and I couldn’t see what went down.”
My teammate gives his head a quick shake. “It’s just…middle school bullshit.” His eyes are pained.
From behind the bench, the trainer makes a noise of surprise. “There’s a scratch on your back. What the hell?” He lifts the back of his jersey for a better look.
Newgate reaches around and slaps his hand away. “Leave it. It’s nothing.”
“Whoa.” Coach puts a hand on Newgate’s shoulder pad. “What did they do?”
I hear myself answer, because suddenly I know. “They put a stick down his shorts. Asked him if he liked it that way.”
Newgate’s face whips toward mine, his expression full of cold fury. “I said leave it.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Coach Powers mutters. “Are you good to play?”
“Of course I fucking am!”
And maybe he is, but now I’m bubbling with rage. Because this is how they try to break you. There’s no penalty in the rulebook for humiliation. You’re just supposed to “man up” and pretend that shit didn’t happen. Pretend you’re not dying inside.
I’m seeing red when we retake the ice. Newgate seems to shake it off, skating fast, getting the job done. So I try to do the same. But every time I get near Marco, I want to choke him.
He knows it. Hell, he’s planned this. And now he’s chirping me in the corners. “You want some of what he’s getting? Bet you’d love it.”
I’m about to lunge when Stoney skates between us in a swish of ice chips. “You Trenton boys got some stupid hobbies.” Then he runs off with the puck.
I’m trying to shut down my rage. It helps when Stoney scores, and we’re up by a goal. It helps a lot. And in the third period, I finally believe this game might someday end.
Until Marco slides in and trips Newgate. Again. They go down hard, with Marco on top.
