Page 5 of From Ice to Grace
I turn toward the opponent, Jones, whose face is twisted in theatrical agony.
“Stop faking it, idiot! Your nose is still on your face and ugly as ever!”
Beneath his hand a small smile is evident and before I know it, I’m launching toward him. The ref grabs me just in time, pulling me back before my fist can connect with his smug face.
One of the linesmen skates up to Jones as I’m being dragged to the penalty box by another. Jones lifts his hand to reveal his lip—cut open and bleeding on the ice. My stomach drops. That means…
“Four minutes!” the ref bellows. “Double minor!”
“Oh come on!” I argue. “Do you have eyes in your head?”
I turn to the official who’s already skating away from me.
Mitch skates up toward me. “Stop fighting it Murphy, or it’s going to get worse.”
Other players drift over, apparently thinking it’s a party. The Panthers’ third line is on the ice right now, and everyone knows they’re a bunch of rats strung together. As I make my way to the penalty box for the fourth time tonight, Marachino, the Panther’s center, throws his arm over my shoulder. Since he’s significantly shorter than I am, he pulls me down, locking me in place to press his mouth against my ear.
“You’re my favourite player here, Murphy,” he says, grinning as he presses closer. I try to get out of his grip, shoving him before he grabs me again. “Can I get your autograph after this? I’ll bring a pair of those new skates you just brought out. They’re terrible, is that why you’re struggling to skate out there?”
He chuckles and it breaks my last restraint.
I turn and shove him hard into the boards before getting in his face. There’s a triumphant smile on his face as he puts up his hands in mock surrender. He lives for this kind of chirping, everyone in the league knows it. He’s got a big mouth and he uses it every chance he gets. He digs beneath your skin, into your personal space, and stays there until you combust.
Rat.
The ref pulls me away from him again, blowing his whistle, and shoving me toward the penalty box. I sit down, trying my best to breathe and ignore the fans pounding on the glass panels. When I have to be in here, I’ll take it. But there’s no way they can put me in the box for something like an accidental high-sticking.
All three officials gather around the monitors, talking into their mics and reviewing the play. I watch them like a hawk, waiting for them to figure out that this was an accident and that they can put me back on the ice.
After a few minutes they skate toward me.
“Ten minute misconduct,” one says, with a foreboding nod as he holds the door open to the penalty box.
I rise slowly. The anger now a raging storm inside of me.
“What?” I bark, watching Mitch and Lucas shaking their heads behind the ref. They know what just went down, and as much as I hate it, I know when I’ve been beat. The warning in Mitch’s eyes is clear: Stand down.
Clenching my jaw, I cut out the explanation from the ref as to why they decided a misconduct was the way to go. The taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite my tongue, literally, not to say exactly what I want to say right now. I shove past the ref, shoulder-checking the player that has to watch his back the next time I see him on the ice, and head straight into the locker room.
There’s barely any time left in the third period, so I might as well take off my gear since I won’t be going back out there again. Not tonight. I’ll have to cool off in the showers and start getting myself ready to face the questions in the post game interview. Because there’s no way they’ll let me leave without hammering me about it.
Barging through the door to the guest locker rooms, I take off my gear, chuck it all in the bins before heading to the showers. I let the cool stream of water hit me, willing it to cool down the fire burning inside my bones. I try to ignore the fact that my team is still out there. I need to calm down. My heart is racing inside my chest, my fists balling against the tiles as I try to control my breathing. I want nothing more than to punch something, anything. It takes everything inside of me to not put my fist through the wall while imagining it’s the face of Marachino.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been this angry.
I can’t let it control me. I can’t let it control my game.
I’ve always been an aggressive player, but for some reason those Panthers brought out the worst in me tonight. Shutting off the water, I dry off and pull on a pair of sweats just as the team gets off the ice. By the looks on their faces, it didn’t go well.
And I’m to blame.
“What was that?” Mitch comes walking into the locker room, his gaze fixed on me as he tosses his gear into the bin. “We all know you can throw down Murphy, but not if it costs us the game.”
“We lost to those?—”
“We did,” he says, marching past me to sit and unlace his skates.
I take my own seat, unable to look my teammates in the eye. I already know what I’ll see on their faces. Disappointment, frustration, disbelief.
