Page 7 of Poetry On Ice

Yeah, that’s what it was.

A craving. A craving for violence.

It was fucking weird.

I’ll tell you one thing for sure, itwon’tbe happening again. I’m a goddamn professional, not an asshole.

Okay, so it did happen again. But in my defense, it wasn’t my fault. We had an off-ice practice yesterday, hitting the gym for strength training and stretching. It went okay. I stayed on one side of the gym and Decker on the other. It wasn’t until we were on the way to the locker room that we made eye contact.

It happened so fast that I couldn’t tell you what went down even if I wanted to. A quick shove sent me into the wall behind me, followed by two hands on my jersey, lifting me onto my toes. Luddy pulled him off me quickly enough that Coach didn’t see anything. Thank fuck, because if he had, he would have seen a side to me I never knew existed. I hulked out. Bodie and Katz had to hold me back and sit with me for half an hour, patting me on the back and talking me down until I stopped making this strange, guttural sound when I breathed out.

I can’t explain it.

What happened tonight is worse though. Way worse. We’ve just played our first game of the season, a homegame against the Denver Rockies, and it didn’t go well. The Rockies are a team we should have beaten easily, but we lost. Two-one, but still. We should’ve been up by at least a goal or two. On paper, we’re the better team by a linear mile. We should’ve beaten them and made it look easy, but we didn’t. We made it look like amateur hour.

Twenty minutes after the game, Decker is sitting at his stall in the locker room, ripping tape as he pulls his pads off his elbows and knees, a constant torrent of shit spewing out of his asshole mouth.

“Yo, McGuire,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “thanks for the assist.”

I smile and nod and remind myself what my mom said about rising above it. She said to do it. The message was clear and simple. “Rise. Above. It.” Even an idiot could follow that.

“Nice one, bud,” he continues. “Way to keep possession of the puck, even if it means costing us the game.”

“I didn’t keep the fucking puck. I passed it to Luddy,” I snap.

“Uh-huh, and how’d that go? Hmm? He had two men on him. I was wide open.”

Do not dignify anything he has to say with a reply,I tell myself.You don’t need to. Just hit the showers and head home. A nice early night, that’swhat you need.

That’s what I’m thinking. That’s what’s going through my mind when I feel myself lunge at him. My feet barely touch the ground. My fists clench, rage forming a hot, tight ball in my chest, propelling me forward. I swing blindly, my vision hazy and tinged with red. I land the first punch under his ribs. The second punch too. My fists crunch into muscle and bone. The impact is blunt and jarring. It rattles my brain, but I like it.

By the time I come out of my stupor, half the team is pinning me against my locker, the other half is holding Decker back, and Coach is screaming his ass off.

Coach leads the way as Decker and I are unceremoniously marched to his office. As we walk, Decker has the balls to look at me and mouth, “Not a word.”

Not a word?

Not a fucking word?

We’ll see about that.

So it turns out that not talking back to Coach Santos when he’s in this kind of mood isn’t the worst advice I’ve ever been given. I did interject a couple of times, and I think the best way to put it is that it was notwell received. As a result, he’s been droning on for what feels like hours. He’s sweaty, nose and cheeks sporting an unhealthy sheen, and his hair is clinging to his forehead. Every now and then, he presses his fingers to his temples and says, “You are on the same team,” very, very slowly, as if he’s speaking to young children struggling to come to grips with a simple concept.

Every time it happens, I feel worse. He’s right. Of course he’s right. Fighting in games is one thing, but fighting a teammate is altogether different. For the past fifteen minutes or so, my cheeks have been burning. Reality is hitting hard. I’m so disappointed in myself that a pit has formed in my belly and I’m feeling a little shaky. Each time Coach looks at me, the pit sinks a little deeper.

The fourth time he says it, Decker says, “Yes, Coach!” so I do the same.

That seems to do it. Coach issues a strenuous warning about what will happen if we choose to go down this road again and shows us the door.

Decker and I walk to the locker rooms with me leading the way. His breathing is shallow and loud. Short, angry huffs that singe the back of my neck as I go. I keep my eyes straight ahead of me and take pains not to so much as look inhis direction.

It’s over. It’s done. I’m done with his shit. I’m done with my own too. I’ve never been called into a coach’s office for a talking-to like that, and I’m not about to start now. I’ve only just gotten here. I’ve only played one game—badly. I haven’t proven myself yet. There’s no way I can get away with this kind of crap. Nor do I want to.

No.

It stops now.

I need to keep my head down and focus on what matters. Hockey, winning, and being part of a team. Not just any team, the Vipers.

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