Page 103 of Hard Hitter
“All right. You and I didn’t spar yesterday. I don’t know if I have this guy figured out yet.”
O’Doul squeezed Crikey’s biceps. “I’ll take him. I don’t mind. He’ll be looking for me anyway. You can get the next one, maybe.” He opened the door, and players began to disperse to the dressing room or to stretch.
“Anyone wanna kick the soccer ball around?” Trevi asked. A few guys followed him out.
The room quieted down, and O’Doul took a newly emptied seat next to Beacon on the sofa.
“Can I ask you something?” The goalie ran a hand over his own jaw. “Was it the fighting that got to you?”
“Uh...” He’d never said this out loud. “It was a lot of things. But that’s a big one. It sort of consumed all my focus, trying to figure out how to stay healthy and still do battle every night.”
Beacon shook his head. “Don’t know how you do it, man—ten years of stepping in front of somebody else’s fist. I’m a bag of bruises just from the game itself.”
“The things we do for money,” he said, laughing it off. But the truth was that he liked hearing Beacon say it—that it wasn’t easy. Maybe he didn’t always have to pretend that it was.
***
All the rest of the pre-game chatter was about points and play-off standings. They were playing Boston again, theteam which was their greatest rival for a play-offs spot. If they lost to Boston, they’d be knocked into fourth place again. So this game had double the usual weight. If they won, the play-offs were within reach.
Kattenberger’s Statistical Model was throbbing with anticipation over this game, assigning it an importance rating of ten.
“This one goes to eleven,” Castro joked as they walked down the chute and stepped onto the ice. Tonight was a sellout crowd, and they were loud as O’Doul and his teammates skated once around the rink and then lined up for the national anthem. Tonight it was competently sung by a pop star he’d never heard of. He found his thoughts drifting to Ari. She was probably up in the box, watching right now. Or maybe in some comped seats with her family.
Even if hockey had been kicking his ass this winter, he still felt that zing. Standing here facing the opposing team, ready to do battle. It was still the best kind of rush.
Tonight he was paired with Massey, and they started first shift. The other team’s offensive line kept them busy from the first second. He slipped into the zone right away, his entire consciousness focused on the action at hand. His stick became an extension of his will—darting out to foil the other team again and again.
Midway through the first period, Leo Trevi scored an ugly goal right in front of the net, and the hometown fans went wild. O’Doul slapped the rookie on the ass as they skated back to the bench. The arena fizzed with excitement. The Bruisers picked up their pace even further, confident that it was possible to win this thing.
Hoping to turn the tide toward his own team, the enforcer—Trekowski, the same jackass who’d called him out on Twitter—challenged him to a fight two minutes later.
O’Doul actually smiled. “You wanna throw down now? Whatever floats your boat, man.”
Trekowski gave him a weird look before dropping his gloves. “Gotta fight you before they fire your ass for doping.”
“Uh-huh. Go ahead. I’m so looped up right now, I fuckinglovepain. You’re doing me a favor.” O’Doul tried on a wild-eyed stare. He skated in a lazy backward circle. When he was younger, he’d acted loopy sometimes when he didn’t know what else to try.
Funny—he’d forgotten how it felt to be new at this. To make your own rules.
At that thought, he lunged forward and grabbed Trekowski’s sweater. “This what you want?”
Trekowski swung but O’Doul got there first. They both landed punches but O’Doul’s was harder. Just for fun he gave a deranged scream. His next punch connected so hard that Trekowski’s helmet flew off.
He knew he’d win just from the look in the guy’s eyes. That flicker of hesitation. O’Doul gave it one more good punch and the guy buckled, sprawling out on the ice.
The whole thing was over in seconds. O’Doul shook out his fist and picked up his gloves. On the way back to the bench, he probed his jaw where he’d been hit.
“You okay?” the trainer asked, opening the door for him.
“Never better.”
As the night progressed, it was true. Boston couldn’t catch them. Bayer got a goal, which Boston answered. But it wasn’t enough. They won 2–1 during regulation play and walked back down the chute two points richer.
“Fire up the Katt Phone!” Castro howled. “I want my gold star. Nate can tattoo it on my ass after that game.”
“Fuck, I’m tired,” Trevi complained. “But it was totally worth it. Someone carry me to Grimaldi’s. I need a slice and a beer.”
“Tell you what,” O’Doul heard himself say. “I’ll order ten pies to my place.”
