Page 144 of I'm Your Guy
I’m over them in a flash, kneeling down and shoving Marco off.
“Whoa, cuz,” he says. “You okay? Gotta check in on your little friend?”
Newgate has bounced to his feet without incident, and now he’s giving me an angry stare. “Move it, Tommaso.”
“Is this the pussy club?” Marco asks, circling us. “Figures you’d find the gayest team in the league. Good for you, bro.”
“I’m not your bro,” I growl.
The crowd is paying attention now. They start up the familiar chant. Fight fight fight!
“You heard ’em,” Marco says with a laugh. “Gotta give the crowd what they want. You’re too good to take a fucking picture with me. And too chicken to fight, too?”
Some of our teammates are closing in, sensing trouble. Lurking at the edges of my vision.
“Don’t fall for it,” Kapski mutters.
“Ooh, your captain has you on a leash?” Marco calls. “Whole team of pussies.”
“Fuck off.” I turn to skate away.
But Marco does it—he drops his gloves on the ice, one after another.
Fuck.
“Fight me, dumbass.” He beckons. “You skate away right now, and that’s what’s going up on YouTube. You know I’m right. The comments will be brutal. ‘Tommaso DiCosta is a chickenshit little faggot, with his pussy and his little rainbow friends.’”
It’s the lamest chirp in the history of chirps. Newgate actually rolls his eyes, like, Can you believe this shit?
But I’ve had a lifetime of this, and I can’t take it anymore. My vision tunnels, until all I can see is Marco’s ugly face. His soulless eyes, and that smirk that just begs to be obliterated.
Somewhere in the back of my consciousness I know I should walk away. And that Coach will lose his mind. But I don’t care right now. I just want revenge.
I flick my fingers to loosen my gloves. Fuck Trenton. Fuck them all. Marco won’t even be able to pronounce a slur when I’m finished, because he won’t have any teeth left.
Just as I’m making this decision, an angry red blur shoots through my vision, and Marco’s head snaps back unpredictably.
For a split second I’m so confused. But then the blur resolves, and I see another Trenton player—a younger dude I don’t know—rearing back to cock his fist again. “Fuck you and your homophobic bullshit! Shut your fucking mouth!”
This time, my cousin ducks the punch. Then he grabs his teammate by the jersey and responds with his own right cross. “Make me, punk!”
They grapple like wrestlers, and I’m deafened by whistles from every officiant.
“What is happening?” Stoney asks, his tone awed.
“Team chaos,” Kapski says. “It’s a look. Back away, DiCosta.” He tugs on my arm. “Let Trenton star in their own shitshow. It’s gonna be all over social media in a hot second.”
He isn’t wrong. As we back off to stand in front of our own bench, the officiants are struggling to hold my cousin and his teammate back. And now the rest of the Trenton bench is shouting at each other. Looks like a few more of them want in on the action.
“Big yikes,” I say, as Carter would. Then I take a deep breath and try to find my calm. “We’re still winning this game, right?”
“We’re winning this damn game,” Stoney says. “Then we’re getting drunk at the hotel after.”
“I’m down with this plan,” Newgate says.
“Hey, DiCosta,” Coach Powers calls from behind the bench. “That was close. You were going to fight him, against my express wishes.”
“Ooh!” Stoney says. “Somebody almost got in trouble.”
