Page 35 of Pucker Up
I pressed the button on the recorder. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Do you want this on the record?”
“It’s hockey.” Ace gave a shrug. “It happens.”
“I’m not sure punching the shit out of a guy at a game and then knocking him out is very sportsmanlike.”
Ace reached over and pressed record on the machine. “It wasn’t a game, it was practice, and it was my brother.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t stop myself from gasping. I knew that they didn’t get along. His brother had told me about the fight, but had left out the fact that the last major concussion he’d had was given to him by his little brother. “Let me get this straight. You fought your own teammate, in practice, who also happens to be your brother.”
Ace pointed at me and clicked his tongue in his mouth. “You got it, Doc.”
I shut off the recorder again. “Why did you do that?” My voice was a whisper.
“You shut off the thing again.” He pointed to the recorder.
“This isn’t part of my study.” I folded my hands on the table in front of me. “But I’d like it if you could tell me more about this incident. It will be useful for our future sessions.”
“I don’t want to talk about that. Like you said, it’s not part of the study.”
His demeanor changed. He crossed his arms over his chest, and his shoulders slumped ever so slightly.
I was out of line. I had to ask each player exactly the same questions, but part of me wanted to help my dad, to figure out why his two best players hated each other, to figure out the source of the animosity so that they could all start working together, and winning.
The screen on my computer went dark. “I think that the cord came out of the cap.”
Ace reached to the cap, his fingers searching for the plug.
“I’ll get it.” I stood and went around the table. The cord had come loose, likely when Ace recoiled from my line of questioning. Ace stiffened as I touched the edge of the cap and reinserted the cord, but I couldn’t get it to click. “Is it all right if I touch you?” I asked.
I was ready for a dirty reply, but it didn’t come. “That’s fine.” Ace stared straight ahead. I rested my hand on his shoulder to hold the cord taut and was able to apply some force to the connection.
It happened in a literal blink of an eye. I saw Ace skating down the ice, the left side, the opposite to his typical position. The team was shorthanded and he was on a breakaway. He faked the shot like he was going to go low, and then flicked his stick, the puck ricocheting off the bar and down behind the back of the goalie, the Las Vegas goalie.
I stepped back and stared at my hand. It felt like I’d been given an electric shock.
“Did you feel that?” I asked.
“Feel what?” Ace remained still, staring straight ahead of him.
As I opened and closed my hand, the feeling started to dissipate. “I’m going to take this cap off. I think it’s malfunctioning.” I slipped the cap from Ace’s head and he reached to smooth down his hair.
“Are you prepared for the game tonight?” I asked while I turned the electrode device around in my hand, looking for possible faults in the wiring.
Ace slung his arm over the back of the chair. “Sure. Although, it doesn’t look good for us.”
“What do you mean?” I set the cap on the table between us and took a seat across from the player.
He ran his hand through his hair, but it didn’t seem to help—the quirky cowlick came back the second he was done. The shrugwas subtle, and as I studied his face, it wasn’t hard to see that Ace wasn’t impressed about something. Maybe this wouldn’t be the interview I’d need for my study, but maybe there would be some gems in this conversation to pass on to my dad. “Las Vegas is the best team in the league. Their goalie—”
“Bellamy,” I interjected.
A wry smile crept across his face. “Yes, Bellamy, he’s practically a wall. And our best player has been benched.”
“Who is that?” I knew exactly who he was talking about. Gideon Bailey was the top player for the Tigers, but I wanted to hear it from Ace. Maybe there was another player that he thought was better.
“You didn’t hear?” His brow furrowed. “I’m surprised my brother didn’t tell you about it in your session.” He reached for the water jug in the middle of the table, a Toronto Tigers logo etched into the side, and poured a glass of water. Without asking, he slid it across the table to me and then poured another for himself.
