Page 63 of Pipe Dreams
“There’s four minutes left in the period,” Mike said, skating backward. “You can have me then.”
Henry fussed a minute longer. But then he stepped carefully off the ice, and play resumed.
Mercifully, the last four were played at the other end of the ice. Somehow the fight had lit a fire under his guys. Theyskated like demons, which led to an ugly goal by Trevi in front of the net with less than thirty seconds left in the period.
Yaaas! They had the lead!
The doctor and the trainer clucked over him like hens during the intermission. They used some kind of nasty medical glue to seal up his face.
“I don’t want to be able to see the bandage out of my peripheral vision,” he said as they worked on him. “It’ll distract me.”
“Shoulda thought about that before you decked him,” Coach Worthington said.
“I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
“We need your ass in that net,” Coach pressed. “You let ’im get to ya. I told you not to, and you didn’t listen.”
This was entirely true. “I’m fine,” he insisted anyway. “I won’t let him get to me again.”
Even so, it was a grueling third period. He let one in after six minutes, which made everyone tense. Fortunately, a penalty was called against Tampa when Skews tripped O’Doul. Brooklyn took the opportunity to score, which restored the team’s equilibrium.
But not Beacon’s. For the rest of the game, his face throbbed mightily, and his boys looked tight and tense.
So did Tampa, though. And in the end, their opponent couldn’t get it done. It was 3–2 at the buzzer. Mike skated off the ice thinking about painkillers and a good, cold beer.
If this were a regular season game, they’d be done with this opponent for a while. But not in the play-offs. They were three games into a best-of-seven series, and while their 2–1 lead was nice, the job was far from over. And forty-seven hours from now he’d be face-to-face with Skewsagain.
Punching him had been a dumb idea, Mike was ready to admit. Now he’d be expected to fight the guy again the day after tomorrow.
He didn’t even make it to his locker before the press wason it, the bright light of a TV camera in his face. “Yeah, I got a little overheated,” he said with a scowl. “I’ll keep a better lid on it next game.”
Outside the dressing room door he found Elsa and Hans. “What happened?” his daughter demanded. “Let me see the wound.”
He chuckled, which only made his face hurt. “I lost my shit, that’s what happened. Don’t let it happen to you.” He put a hand over the bandage. “You can’t see it, the doc already closed it up. It hurts, but I’m fine.”
“Are you going to be okay?” She looked so young when she asked the question, and his heart broke a little.
“Yeah, baby. I promise I’m fine. Go home with Hans, okay? It’s going to be a while until I’m free of this place. And it’s late.”
He moved in to hug her, but she wrinkled up her nose. “You aresosweaty.”
“Sorry,” he laughed. “Go to bed, sweetie. I’ll make you pancakes for breakfast.”
“And bacon?”
“Yeah.”
She beamed and walked off with the violin teacher/babysitter/roommate. He watched them go, wishing he could leave with them, too.
•••
Seventeen years later he’d showered and then submitted his face to an unreasonable amount of further prodding. “Will I still be beautiful?” he grumbled to the doctor inspecting his face.
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea to take yourself to a plastic surgeon for some more skillful sutures.”
He might have laughed, but it would have hurt. “I was kidding,” he said carefully.
“Ice it tonight,” the doctor advised. “And keep it dry. I’ll change these dressings when I have a look in the morning.”
