Page 15 of Kitty Season
Pollard was a dirty player and his coaching career is equally on the nose. Still, ignoring the hatred I have for him, his filthy minion Jordan, and my increasing general mistrust of authority isn’t right. He’s my coach, and as his player I should do what I’m told. Then again. “That’s bullshit. We’re three-zip. The game is ours. We don’t need to cheat.”
Coach’s face turns a similar shade to the Bears maroon jerseys. “Save the pity party for someone who gives a shit, Becker. Physical. Mental. Illegal,” he spits, marking each on fat, crooked fingers. “I don’t care what you do, just do whatever it takes. If you won’t. Foxman will.”
With that, Jordan high fives fellow fuck wit and line mate, Lucas Moroni, and we’re jumping the boards to resume play.
“Don’t forget what Coach said,” the former sneers. “Take Basse out, or I will.”
Huddling on the blue line, Chris and Dan shoot me matching looks of concern as I approach. “You’re not going to do it … right?” Chris asks, eyes shifting to Brady who’s pulling some weird-ass goalie stretch, his arms stretched across his net, his legs almost parallel.
“The fuck if I know. I could give two shits about messing up the golden number one’s pretty face, but I need a contract at the end of this season, or I’m back to picking apples with my Moms.”Not a euphemism. My parents actually bought a tiny apple farm when we left the trailer park. “Suspension is not an option.”
“Right,” Chris nods. “So, I repeat, what are you going to do?”
From the corner of my eye I see Quinn waving at Brady before her eyes seek and find mine. A kiss is blown in my direction and it takes all of my strength not to jump in the air, catch and hold it to my heart. Instead, I ignore it as I tell myself it’s for her own good.
“Whatever I need to.”
Someone must have lita match in Brady’s ass during that last time out, because five minutes of game time remain and it’s a different man before those pipes.
He’s stopped everything that’s come within a foot of his pads. BC have scored twice off his rebounds. And I am running out of time.
Tired of my own lack of action, each time Foxman approaches the net he’s tossing gloves, his stick, his brains in an attempt to start something with anyone, and draw Brady in. He’s swept Brady’s feet out, is one bitch slap away from straight up belting the shit out of him, and the ref’s seem oblivious.
I, more than anyone, get that physicality goes with hockey like peanut butter does with jelly, but this is getting out of hand. Brady may well be covered in pads till he resembles the Michelin man, but the kid is going to be black and blue tomorrow, and that thought takes up an abnormally large, irrationally uncomfortable space in my chest.
At this point I don’t even care about the W, or how I look for betraying my team. I need to protect their goalie.
But how?
The ‘what’comes to me when Bears D-man Paul Osam’s sloppy hands allow me to pluck the puck from his stick, causing a turnover and breakout that has me dangerously close to offside. Lucky for me the refs have swallowed their whistles, and it’s just me and the giant goalie.
Calls of teammates and fans are a distant dull roar as I close in.
Boldly, he leaves his crease when I’m still a stride or two away. Even from here, with the blur of movement and a metal cage shielding his unfairly pretty face, I can see those crystal blue orbs tracking the puck, widening when he realizes I ain’t slowing down.
“What the fu—” And an explosion of air, as loud as thunder, cracks throughout the arena as our bodies collide, the force of which takes out Brady, and the net. As a threesome we slide, me practically riding his massive frame into the boards. The second we still, I toss my gloves, take hold of his jersey and shake, hoping it looks more violent than it is.
“You’ve got to get off the ice, Skip. They’re trying to hurt you … Skip.” For several sickening beats, there’s no reply. “Basse, they want to hurt you.”
Panic sets in, time grinding to a halt when he fails to respond, or fucking move, but then. “You’re hurting me you fucking wanker.”
I huff a startled, relieved laugh. “Yeah, well you scared the shit out of me?—”
“Do not touch my goalie!”Andwe’re back in real time. Incensed by my crossing of the ultimate hockey line, I’m hauled to my feet by little Cory Malkovich, the smallest guy on the ice, and given the standard, warning-both verbally, and by fist.
“I’m trying to save your goalie.”
With Dan and Chris on the bench, and none of my other teammates backing me up, I’m besieged by Bears, squished against the boards and pummeled.
When the dust settles, some asshole’s left teeth marks are in my arm, I’ve taken a couple of head butts, a shit ton more punches, and I’m in the bin. Malkovich, Shane and Osam are sent to theirs, and switch to an enthusiastic, chirped takedown of me through the glass.
I don’t partake, not ‘cause I don’t want to, but because the instant the door slams shut, I pounce on the unsuspecting time keeper. “Sir, do you have a pen and paper?”
“What the hell do you need a pen and paper for, kid?” He huffs, observing me as though I’ve taken one too many blows. “You writing your last will and testament?”
“Something like that.”
My arms feel weighed down, my movements slow and unnatural as I shove my hand through my hair and keep my eyes on the Bears’ bench. As expected, Skip’s surrounded by trainers, most likely being assessed for a concussion. In the same breath I pray that he’s okay, and remind myself that I’m not supposed to care.
