Page 60 of Misconduct Zone

I miss the pass from Ace and charge after it. The ice is fast and the pace of the game lightning speed, and I am a step behind. I smash into the boards and am slow to recover.

Dylon fights for the puck and gets it off to Ace, but his shot is blocked.

We are down by two, and the chemistry of the entire team seems out of sync. It’s as if my uncertainty infects our playing. Coach switches things up, and I end up playing with the third line. My performance lacks skill, and it’s the worst I’ve played since entering the league. Everyone has bad games, but I’m winded as if out of shape.

“Hey, man, you okay?” Benz sits next to me on the bench. “You look pale.”

My jaw clenches but I don’t respond.

“We all have off nights. It’s part of the game, but you aren’t—”

“I am fine,” I cut him off, not wanting to hear about how badly I’m playing. Too soon it’s my shift, and I’m back in the game.

Benz tries a couple more times to talk to me, but I shake him off. There aren’t words to fix my head at this point. Liska’s having an off night in goal. Tonight, he’s playing well, but we need him to play great.

Griffin and King combine for a goal to bring us within one.

In a first for me, I tumble over the boards and lose my footing. Coach pulls me three minutes later and tells me to get my head out of my ass. My head cannot send the correct signals to my body. It’s as if I’m skating underwater.

As the stream of water from the bottle hits my throat, I have a coughing fit. Helplessly, I watch Dylon chase a rebound and take an elbow to the face from number 12. The ref misses it, and no penalty is called.

I see red.

On my next shift, the player who hit Dylon isn’t on the ice, but I manage to keep pace and get a shot off, which the goalie catches.

During Dylon’s next shift, number 12 throws him into the boards after another player strips the puck away. It’s an illegal hit, and again the refs do nothing.

Number 12 skates off the ice as I launch myself over the wall, and without slowing, my body slams into his and my elbow connects with his throat in retaliation. Adrenaline courses through me as the opposing players scream for the refs to intervene. Number 12 calls me a slur, referencing the photo of Dylon and me.

The red I saw earlier becomes black as I tackle him to the ice and punch until I’m hauled off of him, both of us covered in blood. My chest aches, and I have another coughing fit.

The ref cites me for misconduct, and I am immediately ejected from the game. My stunned teammates don’t say a word as I skate past, not looking them in the eyes.

My reputation as the protector is well known, but today I was an executioner, and I hurt my team by getting ejected. I shower and wait. As punishment, Coach sends in the assistant we refer to as Ass. He drones on and on, but I don’t listen.

We lose by three, and the locker room is subdued. There are accusatory glances, but no one speaks to me. Coach gives a scathing speech and makes it clear that if I ever attack another player like tonight, I will suffer more consequences than an ejection.

I bolt to the bus as quickly as possible and sit in the back with my headphones so no one will approach me. Dylon plops down, undeterred.

“Thank you,” he mutters. “I know you went after him for me, and I’m sorry you got ejected.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” I say, hoping there’s an explanation I can live with regarding his lie. I hate what he did, but tonight I acted on instinct. No one hurts him. Even if he’s not mine, no one touches him.

“Can we talk?” His big, sweet eyes implore me, and as much as I cannot hear another lie, I won’t say no to him.

“Drakenberg, up front,” Coach barks, and Dylon’s face falls.

I make my way to the front of the bus, and Coach points to a seat next to our other assistant coach, who offers me a look of sympathy. He’s a reprieve from the vitriol of Coach Ass. He’s the coach you go to with questions and concerns so it’s not a surprise when he asks me if I’m okay with the social media debacle and what he can do to help.

Social media does not affect my life. The team handles my account, and I rarely have any personal pictures to post. Finn keeps me updated on the meme but doesn’t tell me about the comments. The post isn’t a factor in my poor performance tonight.

My head throbs as if struck by a skate.

Something’s wrong because when I stand to get off the bus, the world tilts before I find my footing. We have a team dinner, but my body aches and I can hardly stand.

I bypass the elevator and take the stairs. The thought of being enclosed in the small space with big bodies feels like a bad idea. I don’t understand why I’m out of breath after a couple of flights of stairs.

My face hits the pillow, and I’m too tired to set an alarm. A few minutes of rest and I’ll be good as new.

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