Page 72 of Bad Wolf

I continue on my downward spiral until finally in the second period, a Florida player calls me out on my bullshit. We exchange a few choice words while I skate in a circle, provoking him.

Casey skates to my side, pleading for me to reign it in. As I hone in on my opponent, Casey’s voice gets further and further away. I know he’s trying to de-escalate the situation, but I want this.

Giddon has had just about enough and throws down his gloves. I lose mine too, and launch my stick in the air. It’s on. He gets a few jabs in, my punches hit harder. I’m fueled by the fury that snaps and snarls at my restraint until it’s unleashed, and I pummel that fucker until he stops retaliating.

Callan pulls me out of it and when the refs have Giddon under control, I see Casey, Gunner, and Hollywood in their own shoving matches. I decide I’m not done yet, and go after Giddon one more time, earning myself a game misconduct.

At the end of the third period, my teammates trudge off the ice after a humiliating defeat, and a game that’s left both the fans and the media in a frenzy.

The coaching staff all take turns in reading me the riot act. Chewing my ass out, which is thoroughly deserved.

I don’t need to try and give Casey the cold shoulder tonight, he can’t even look at me.

I get no words of brotherly concern as I strip and shower off, and none of my friends wait for me to finish getting ready. Casey has to go and do damage control with the journalists, and I wonder how fireproof my contract really is.

I might have just torched my career, and it only took sixty minutes.

When I get home to the apartment I share with Jason and Hollywood, all is quiet. They must have decided to go and get shit-faced in some corner of a club and I’m thankful, because I just really want to ice my jaw that’s beginning to swell, and get an early night.

As I’m rooting around the freezer for an ice pack that we usually have copious amounts of, I spy the half bottle of Icelandic vodka rolling around. That’ll do better than painkillers.

I strip off my suit, change into a pair of sweats and nothing else, flinching from the pain that ricochets around my body whenever I move.

I check my phone. It’s packed with missed calls from both my mom and dad, Coralie, Troy, and Theo.

I close my eyes, willing it all to disappear, but they’re still all there when I open them so I turn my phone off.

And then I mindlessly flip through the channels, purposefully avoiding the sports shows and settle in for a few hours of sulking. Just me and this huge bottle of crisp, cold numbing agent.

* * *

Isense a heavy presence. It looms above my body, casting a shadow over my face, and drawing me out of a sleep I’d really needed. At first, I think it’s part of a dream, but it morphs into realizing someone is standing over me.

It’s the whiff of Old Spice next that has me cracking my eyelids and peering up into a set of blue eyes not dissimilar to mine, although much older and wiser.

Oh, fuck.

“Oh, fuck is right, Son. Time to wake up.”

He’s using his CO voice, and although I know he’s doing it on purpose, I still can’t help it when I scramble to get up into a seated position.

He passes me a scalding hot cup of black coffee, and I see he’s forgone milk or creamer as a weird form of punishment. In the two minutes I’ve been stirring awake, my hangover is kicking in with brute force, so I take it anyway.

After a sip, he sits down next to me.

“I kept my mouth shut and stayed away, but after last night’s abysmal performance, I thought it time we had a chat.”

“Hockey teams lose, Dad.”

“Not like that they don’t!” His voice booms. Oh hell, he’s mad.

“The press is having a field day with this, and we need to get your head on straight. Your mama is in a tailspin. It’s time to talk.”

I rest my weary head on the cushions that line the back of the couch and blow out a heavy breath.

“Where’s Nerd?”

“He went to practice.”

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