Page 42 of I'm Your Guy
My eyes are supposed to be on the ref, who’s setting up to drop the puck. But this jab works, and I flick my eyes toward Dutka.
He grins. “Marco said it’s because you like to eye-fuck guys in the shower.” Then he drops his gloves.
Suddenly my gloves are down on the ice, too, and I’m grabbing Dutka by the jersey.
It happens so fast. He barely has time to lift his hands in a fighting stance before I punch him. Hard. My hand blooms with pain, and he reels back.
He tries to recover and return the favor. I take a hit to my face, before dodging the next punch. Then I unleash a whole lot of pent-up fury on him, and seconds later he goes down.
The refs pounce. Hands drag me back, and the whistle is deafening. The penalty box opens, and I skate toward it in a daze.
They say you like to eye-fuck guys in the shower. It’s a fucking lie. But I’m choking on it anyway. It’s hard to breathe when you’re this angry.
Across the rink, Coach Powers stares at me, his furious expression as easy to read as a fist to the face.
* * *
Colorado gets the win, but just barely. And no thanks to me.
“We had a deal,” Coach snarls at me in the training room, where I’m icing my hand. “You don’t fight unless it’s unavoidable.”
“It was,” I bark. “He hit Stoney. And then he provoked me.”
“For fuck’s sake! That’s just Wednesday in hockey,” Coach growls.
I don’t point out that it’s Tuesday. “Sorry, Coach.”
“We had one rule. You’re not the guy who settles the score, no matter who mouths off to you. Got that?” he snaps. “You could seriously fuck up your hand, not to mention your sketchy reputation. And for what? Jumping on a middling player who looked at you funny?”
My hand throbs. So does my lip. “Yessir.” I have the horrible thought that Coach Powers will decide I’m not worth the trouble and trade me. Right before Christmas. Right after I bought a house.
Hello, doom loop. Nice to hear from you again.
“What’s going on in that big head of yours?” he asks. “Tate says you might have some kind of issue with a teammate?”
I taste bile in my throat. “Absolutely not, Coach. That’s not true. But I’ve got some stuff going on at home.”
“Your mother is ill?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, startled. It’s not a state secret, but I don’t talk about it, and I haven’t got a clue how he would know that. “But I won’t let it continue to affect my attitude.”
His grumpy chin lifts. “See that it doesn’t. And see the trainer about that hand.”
* * *
That night, we fly to Boston, touching down in the wee hours. My ice pack has melted, and my hand still throbs. There’s a bus waiting to take us to a hotel, and I’m the first to board. I turn on my phone and take a seat. Then I plaster on my don’t-talk-to-me face and put in my earbuds.
My mind is static, but I open up my phone, trying to look busy and unapproachable.
I’ve got several texts that I’m afraid to answer. One from my mother, asking if I’m okay. Another from Gia that’s probably the same.
But there’s also one from Carter. And I’m not a very strong man tonight, so that’s the one I click.
Hey, Jersey. The sportsing looked hard tonight. I’m sorry.
Oof. It hadn’t occurred to me that Carter might have seen that fight. Somehow that just makes it worse.
Luckily, my job is easier than yours. I found a bed for the guestroom. (See pic below.) And I found four potential beds for you. I made a video about them. And you said it’s hard to keep furniture straight, so I’m giving you LOTS of background info.
