Page 108 of The Trade Deadline
Lars shrugged, knowing his indifference would only bother him more. “It’s a game. I’m aware there will be a loser.”
It was brutal. They came after him again and again. The refs were more inclined to help the home team, and the Prowlers took penalty after penalty, but a lot happened when the refs turned their backs. It was hard to control his temper when he was getting hammered every shift. Looking only at the penalty list, he was tripped twice, boarded once, cross checked three times, and high sticked (though thankfully in the back of the head so he didn’t get hurt). He was constantly interfered with—though it was called exactly zero times—and cheap shots were taken at him long after the play ended.
The Crabs tried to help. Jake was there at every whistle to work his way between Lars and whichever Prowler was trying to get at him, and once Voronin tackled someone in front of the net who had given up trying to play hockey and was camped in front of the crease simply to slash the fuck out of Lars’s legs. Their help was appreciated, but it didn’t matter. Lars would be bruised and sore for a week, and for what? This was the first game since March 5th where he was actively trying to score, and he couldn’t. He’d gotten a few chances, but every inch he gained on the ice felt hard-earned, forced to work through a team that wasn’t so much interested in hockey but knocking him on his ass and keeping him there.
Their intense focus on Lars had its perks, though. They seemed too exhausted to do much when any other line was out, and having their sights set on Lars had allowed Jake and Tomas to each score.
“You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” a different center asked him. They weren’t keeping the lines consistent, like everyone on the Prowlers had a personal score to settle with him and Coach Jones was doing his best to allow it.
“Look at the scoreboard,” Lars said without taking his eyes off the ref’s hand. “You’re down by three.”
The next time it was someone Lars didn’t even recognize. Clearly a trade deadline acquisition who’d bought into the team’s anti-Lars agenda. “How’s it feel leaving for a team that sucks? Won’t even make the playoffs.”
“Whoareyou?” said with the practiced disdain he knew bothered players who weren’t “top tier” (whatever the fuck that meant). “You new to the league or something?”
He regretted it once he said it, mostly because it would make him sound like a prick if they chose that clip to play. It wasn’t the NHL who’d asked him, though, it was the Crabs; maybe they’d be merciful and scrub that one from the record.
“Couldn’t cut it with a real team so had to come out East to play with some scrubs?”
That one was somewhat baffling to him. Lars had always led the Prowlers in points and goals, and aside from the Prowlers’ two runs to the Cup, it was generally an Eastern Conference team who won. But he supposed logic wasn’t really a piece of it.
For better or worse, the Crabs were rising to the occasion. Instead of staying level-headed, they vented on the bench about how the Prowlers were all jerks and the league should do something about the way they were blatantly targeting Lars and maybe they should give the Prowlers a taste of their own medicine, etc.
“We’re just as big as them,” Tomas was saying. “We’re just as fast. We can throw our weight around and give ‘em a few bruises to remember Baltimore.”
“They fucking deserve it,” Jordy added in. “One of the guys nearly hit Vorny in the head because he was going for Nilsy. None of that’s okay.”
“Let’s fuck ‘em up!”
Lars kept looking to Ryan’s spot on the bench, desperately wishing he were there to be the voice of reason, to calm everyone down. Imaginary Ryan couldn’t cut it, quieter and quieter as he urged Lars to stay positive and play a clean game. By the start of the third, Lars couldn’t hear him at all.
Early in the third, Pavel laid a huge open-ice hit that had the crowd roaring and the Prowlers seething. Of course, they went right for Lars in retaliation, as though Pavel didn’t exist and was merely an extension of Lars Nilsson.
When one of his former linemates, Alex Zigmund, came after him, Lars finally got fed up. He dodged the check and then cross checked him right in the chest. He heard the whistle, knew he was going to the box for finally sticking up for himself, and it made him even angrier.
“What the fuck is your problem, Zigs?” Lars shouted at him, giving him another shove. “I went to your fucking wedding. Players leave, shithead, and it doesn’t mean you get to treat them like this.”
Zigmund’s response was probably one he should’ve anticipated: he dropped his gloves.
Well, shit.
Lars dropped his as well, circling Zigmund and wondering if he could fight someone who he’d barely thought about in months.
“You left in the middle of the night,” Zigmund said as he threw a punch. Lars dodged it, but Zigmund got a hold of his jersey. “You’re right, you went to my wedding.” Another punch, this one wide; Lars grabbed onto Zigmund’s jersey to try and keep some distance. “And you left without even saying why. So why”—this punch grazed his chin—“did you”—another, one that somehow hit his shoulder, the pads absorbing it—“leave!?”
The last one connected, right into his cheek. It surprised him that it was harder than when Anders punched him, which made no sense since Anders easily had five inches and fifty pounds on Zigmund. It surprised him a lot more to learn he hadn’t actually lost his temper until then.
Lars tightened his grip on Zigmund’s jersey, got both hands buried in the material and shook him hard. It threw him off balance, his hands coming up to Lars’s arms to try and steady himself, and Lars took the opportunity to punch him square in the jaw. He did it again for good measure, even though he saw the first hit had busted Zigmund’s lip, and then he threw him to the ice.
“I left because they found out I’m gay and Mackey told me to get the fuck out!” he screamed down at Zigmund. “Is that a good enough reason for you, asshole?”
And then he turned his back on Zigmund’s stunned expression and bloody lip, and dutifully skated to the penalty box without so much as glancing at the refs. As the adrenaline wore off, Lars found himself shaking in the box. He stared straight ahead, ignoring Zigmund in the neighboring penalty box and definitely ignoring the fans banging on the glass around him and the scoreboard replaying the incident above him. It was so loud in the arena that Lars wasn’t sure who’d heard his outburst. Zigmund had, he was sure, but had the refs? Were there other players close enough?
“What the fuck am I doing?” he grumbled to himself. As he gingerly touched his cheek to inspect the damage, he remembered the one thing he really shouldn’t have forgotten.
He was still wearing a mic.
Chapter32
