Page 2 of Against the Odds
I smothered a pained chuckle, not sure if that was Grandpa’s rose-coloured glasses, or a joke. I’d been a holy terror from day one, and we were both lucky to have survived my grief-filled rage and resistance. “Zeke will figure it out.”
“We can offer to help. At the funeral, I mean.”
“Sure. We’ll do that. Unless Josiah’s going off with his Ontario relatives.” I didn’t know Mrs. Evans’ family and had no real desire to change that fact.
“I suppose. Well, how was your game? You win?”
“Yep. Shutout.”
“Congratulations. You’re having a hell of a year.”
“Thanks, but don’t jinx me.” Although I already had great stats. Didn’t mean I’d get a chance at the NAPH, though. Moving up a league was harder for a goalie than a forward or defenseman. Vancouver had two veteran goalies, a solid starter in Virtanen and a strong backup goalie in Anosov, at the tail end of a stellar career. Barring injuries, there was no room for me in the Dragons’ lineup. They might trade me, of course, but damn it, I wanted to be a Dragon.
“Tell me about the game,” Grandpa requested.
So, as I pulled on my clothes, I gave him a few tastes of the action on the ice. He hadn’t been a hockey fan before my parents’ death, but in trying to redirect my wildness in positive ways, he’d put me in a bunch of sports. Hockey was the one that stuck, and he’d learned along with me.
Sully, my roommate, wandered over when I got off the call. “Hey, ready to hit the road?” We carpooled on the days he wasn’t staying with his girlfriend.
“Sure. Let me grab my jacket.” February in Vancouver could be pouring rain, or even freezing, or warm and sunny. This week was somewhere in the middle.
A bunch of fans were waiting for us outside the arena. Docker and Hobbes had already started signing autographs, so Sully and I joined them. I figured someday it’d get old that people wanted me to scrawl my name in Sharpie all over their stuff and thought my autograph made a shirt or hat more valuable, but that day wasn’t today. We were mingling with the crowd, enjoying the positive vibes of coming off our fifth win in a row, when I heardsome jerk say to Docker, “I don’t care if you score goals. You butt-fuckers don’t belong in hockey. You’re sick.”
I glanced over. Docker was backing away from some big guy in a Dragons jersey and ball cap. The guy was red in the face, but Docker kept a fake smile plastered on. The asshole turned to a woman with two preteen boys at her side and jabbed a finger toward her. “You keep those kids away from the groomers. You want them to turn?—”
“Hey!” I shouted, jogging over there. “Watch the frickin’ language. There’s kids here.”
The guy turned toward me. “You’re sick. You’re all sick, letting him in the locker room. Next thing you know he’ll be turning the whole team?—”
“Turning us what?” I rode over his words. “Turning us into kind, supportive human beings who would rather hang out with a hundred gay men than one asshole like you? Yeah, already been there, done that. Get lost. Get off team property.” I took a step closer, jabbing my finger at him. “Take your nasty, slimy, weaselly?—”
“Fuck off!” He took a swipe at my hand, batting my finger away from his face. “I got rights. I can be anywhere I want.”
“Well, you don’t want to be around us LGBTQ folk and allies, so why don’t you fuck right off.” I turned to the woman. “Excuse my language. I’ve got manners, unlike Mr. KKK Slimeball here.”
Docker muttered, “Fitzer, cool it.”
The woman said, “No problem.”
But then douchebag-number-one spat on the ground by my feet and said, “I bet you’re one of those queers. You suck Dockerty’s dick?”
I whirled and roared at him, arms out like I was going to grab him. Dude jumped back and then hurried off. I knew he would. I’m on the lean side for a player, but I’m tall and ripped, and he was some dumpy lard-ass three inches shorter.
When Docker said, “Fitzer!” even louder, I turned, planning to reassure him I was just faking the dude out.
Unfortunately, right beside Docker stood Coach Esko, his arms folded and a glare on his face. “Fitzpatrick, my office, seven a.m. sharp, before practice tomorrow.” His faint Finnish accent came out stronger, a clue to how pissed off he was.
“I didn’t touch the dude,” I protested, waving at the crowd. “Ask anyone. And he was talking shit?—”
“Seven. Sharp.” He strode off and the crowd parted to let him through.
Docker murmured, “Dude, you can’t go attacking every homophobe who shows up here spouting bullshit.”
“He told her to keep her kids away from you,” I protested.
“And she would’ve ignored him and thought what an ass he was, if you didn’t interfere.”
“Or he might’ve gotten worse!” Bullies didn’t back off unless you stood up to them. It irritated me that Docker wasn’t even grateful. He didn’t know I was seeing myself in his place, so he should’ve appreciated the support.
