Page 2 of Hard Hitter
O’Doul hoped so. They needed a third place finish in the Metropolitan division to be guaranteed a play-offs spot. If they ended up in fourth place, they might squeak into the last spot. It was possible. But, as O’Doul’s team-issued phone told him every time he pulled it out of his pocket, their play-offs spot was not a lock. Kattenberger’s sophisticated model projected their chances at 81 percent.
There was no room for error. And tonight’s game meant a lot because Boston was one of the other Eastern teams in contention for those last couple of slots.
They were so close. So fucking close he could taste it.
“Get some rest before the game,” Nate suggested, squeezing his forearm.
O’Doul fought the instinct to shake off the big boss’s casual touch. “Will do,” he agreed, knowing it was a lie. He’d go back to the hotel and lie down for a while. But sleep would elude him the same way it did on every game day. “See you tonight,” he said.
Nate gave him one more nod and walked away.
***
Eight hours later, the fans roared as Boston made another attempt on goal.
O’Doul watched from the bench, feeling grim.
The most grueling part of his job wasn’t the hockey game, or the constant travel. And it wasn’t the fighting, or the stitches and bruises.
It was thedread.
Sitting on the bench between shifts, it sunk low in his belly. It was heavy, like lead. And each time he vaulted over the wall it rose up in his throat like bile.
If any team’s enforcer ever told you he never felt dread, that man was lying. No human could put his body in the path of a six-three scrapper’s fist three or four times a week without anticipating the pain.
Tonight’s fight had been pre-arranged in the worst possible way, too. The other team’s enforcer—a dick by the name of Trekowski—had called him out last night on social media. On fucking Twitter.
Maybe O’Doul won’t wimp out on fighting me tomorrow night. #AGuyCanHope #BabySayYes.
Of all the dick moves O’Doul had witnessed, this one took the trophy. He hadn’t responded, because he didn’t even have Twitter. He didn’t tweet. Or twat. Whatever.
The team’s publicist—Georgia—had responded on his behalf. He’d approved a pithy little quote for the Bruisers’ Facebook page:
Someone punched me on the interwebs?
he’d supposedly replied.
Funny, I didn’t feel a thing.
He had to admit it was a clever response. A hockey fight was supposed to have purpose. Usually, a fight was payback for a cheap shot that endangered one of his guys. Other times, the brawl was meant to fuel an ongoing rivalry, rallying the team and changing the energy of a game.
Fights weren’t supposed to start because some bonehead wanted to flex his shiny personality on social media. And they sure as hell weren’t supposed to be fueled by alie. O’Doul had never ducked a fight in his life. But he’d missed the last game against Boston on account of a procedure on a tendon in his wrist.
Thankfully, and with the help of the best medical attention money could buy, his wrist had healed up fast. But lately he had a new problem—pain in his hip flexor muscles. It was a low-grade thing. Something to watch. But it made him feel a lot less invincible than he was used to. At thirty-two years old he was suddenly more conscious of the toll the game took on his body. And the fighting he did for his team made everything riskier.
So much could go wrong in those violent sixty or ninety seconds.
Still, the hours leading up to the fight hurt worse than a cross to the jaw. As tonight’s game wore on, the dread got heavier. He’d already spent the first two periods trying to make plays while simultaneously taking it easy on his hip. While trying not toappearto take it easy on his hip. And keeping the warlike mask on his goddamn face.
Frankly, it was exhausting.
Earlier this season he’d had an unusually frank heart-to-heart with another team’s enforcer—an old timer known as the Hammer. He was the nicest guy in the world—the kind who wanted to buy you a drink after you’d finished beating the crap out of each other.
Maybe it was the scotch, but that night he’d confessed how much mental energy the fights demanded of him.
“Doulie,” The Hammer said, using his nickname. “Trysome chemical courage. I can share it with you now that we’re not gonna match up again this season.” He’d pulled out a pill bottle and shaken eight of the tablets into O’Doul’s palm. “Take one of those before a game.”
“What is it?”
