Delayed Penalty (28 page)

Her hands gripped my sides, urging me forward each time I moved. Tipping her head back with my fingers, I kissed her, tasting her love heavy on my tongue.

There would never be anything but this, right here.

Eventually our movements stopped; we couldn't go further and we knew it.

I smiled with closed eyes, kissing her one last time, twice, three times, before pulling away. "I love you," I whispered again, tenderly worshiping this girl, exhaling against her skin.

I dropped the gloves. I finally told a girl I loved her, and fuck if I wasn't ready to dance.

Delayed penalty – When a penalty is called, the referee will raise his or her arm to indicate that one is being called, but, if the team who committed the infraction is not in control of the puck, no whistle will be blown until a player from the offending team controls the puck.

Conference Finals (Game 1) San Jose Sharks

Sunday, May 16, 2010

My mind was wandering as it usually did, taping my stick—trying not to focus on anything in particular and definitely not the situation with Ami and me. So much about our relationship, still technically undefined, was complicated. We had a strong friendship and both understood that it was so much more than that and had been since the very beginning. Ami and I had a bond. And in hockey, a bond was what you needed. As weird as it sounded, I could see myself with Ami forever.

I also knew it wouldn't be much longer before we finally had sex. The thought was both comforting and terrifying.

Dave Keller, our old teammate, stepped inside the locker room, the same high that always surrounded him present. No one knew the reason why he was traded, and if you asked him, he didn't know either. He never got along with O'Brien, though, so it was understandable for the most part.

"What's up, Mase?" I gave Dave a nod, my focus on my stick.

"So what's with you and Natalie the other night?" Leo asked Dave, knowing he'd taken out the pediatrician from Northwestern. Pretty much all of us had bagged her at one time or another. "She let you take a dip?"

"Fuck yeah, she wanted it." Remy chuckled beside me. Dave was always bragging. I smiled too, missing the banter between all of us. "Oh yeah, she was fucking pretty, eh? She liked it rough, too."

For a moment, those words meant nothing from Dave. He always said shit like that. Then, though, the words really meant something to me.

Until my mind went back to what Ami remembered about that night.

"You want it, don't you? I bet you like it rough."

A flash of remembrance came to mind as I looked into his dark eyes. Dave stared back at me. He was still talking, his mouth was moving, but I couldn't hear anything else.

We exchanged a look. I never noticed how black his eyes were. Maybe it was my mind trying to place him as the guy?

Feelings of dread washed over me and left me shaking. What if he was the guy?

That was when moments from the past came back, things he said, the way Ami reacted to him the first time she met him. It was nothing she said, just a confused look. I didn't even think she was conscious of it. Then there was his appearance before we left for Nashville, right after Ami's attack. He had scratches he hadn't gotten in the game.

The phrase jolted me like an electric current.

"How are you and the ballerina doin'?"

I ran out of the locker room and into the hall, half-dressed, gasping for breath. When I got near the wall, my hands splayed out supporting me as my head hung, staring at the floor.

I tried to breathe and swallow and…just fucking breathe...but it hurt. "Come on, man…" I told myself, shaking my head. "Get it together. You don't know that it's him."

But I did know. I felt it.

I heard my voice break apart when I spoke, the pain, the guilt, breaking me apart. I gripped my hands tighter, struggling, straining every raw nerve ending just to hold on.

And then I thought of Ami, sweet Ami and those starry blue eyes and innocent smile, and my fucking heart skipped a beat, and I felt her in every beat.

He was my fucking friend, and he did this.

A thousand different memories and visions flashed before my eyes, from the moment I found her to right before the game; the doctors doing the rape kit on her, taking pictures of every cut, scratch and bruise; the look of her lying in that bed, unconscious, supported by a machine; the look on her face when I first officially met her; our first kiss; watching her at my first game.

All these memories, all these visions of what our life had been like for five months. What this girl went through and what she overcame in five short months.

But the thing was, the part that made me physically ill was that none of that shit would have happened if he hadn't done this to her.

Suddenly, I could barely breathe.

I didn't want to believe it was Dave.

"Dude..." Leo came into the hall when I vomited into the trash can. "You pregnant or something?"

I didn't have time to answer him before I was throwing up again. I was a fucking mess.

When I was finally on the ice for warm-up, my skates felt constraining, like they were shackles. Leo kept asking me what was wrong, but every time my voice caught in my throat, the fight in me raging. Two sides of me warred against each other, each one with their own distinct voice.

There was the moral side, the one my parents raised to do the right thing, and then there was the less noble side. The side that saw firsthand what he had done to her and the side that wanted to kill that motherfucker for
ever
laying a hand on her.

The less noble side was very convincing.

I turned my head to the right to see who was beside me. Leo. His face frozen with apprehension.

Circling around during warm-ups, I saw Dave coming at me. He gave me a head nod, as if to say "Hey," but I didn't look up. Instead, I dropped my shoulder and checked him right on the red line. He knew that was my warning.

I skated past without a look, let alone a word. Not acknowledging him was easy. It was not laying his fucking ass out, beating him senseless, and jerking the truth out of him that was difficult. That side won out.

The sports broadcasting station and fans were all over that.

Honestly, though, it was my only way of getting away from him. I thought for sure if I was out of the game I couldn't act on what I so desperately wanted to do.

I wanted to kill him.

As harsh as that sounded, friend or not, if I was right and it was him that did that to my girl, he was done.

"Sit. The. Fuck. Down," Coach said, shoving me down where I belonged—on the bench.

Trailer – A player who follows his teammate on the attack seemingly out of the action but actually in position to receive a backward or drop pass.

The night of the first game in round one of the Stanley Cup playoffs was against San Jose. I originally wasn't going to go, but Callie and Evan talked me into it, and we made the trip with the team. Evan, being in playoff mode, he was quiet and frigid.

By the time we got to the arena the night of the game, Callie was drunk because she said she couldn't stand how moody the boys were being. This was my first road trip with their team and also my first time flying since the accident with my family. Surprisingly, I did well with the help of some adult beverages from the flight attendant who felt bad for me. I made it.

Once at the arena in San Jose, Callie offered me some more alcohol, her flask tucked safely in her bra again, but I declined. I was too nervous to drink.

"What's wrong with Evan?" I noticed his appearance was completely off when he took the ice. Never looking up, he circled center ice. "He's been weird since we left Chicago, but now he seems…almost pissed."

"It's playoffs." Callie watched him for a minute and then looked down, concentrating on adding the booze from her flask to the open 7-Up bottle in her hand. "They all get moody. Drink?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Hey, is that Dave Keller who used to play with the Blackhawks?" I asked Callie when I saw him come onto the ice and skate past the glass in front of us. His eyes seemed different tonight, darker, angry even, or maybe familiar? It wasn't something I could place.

"Yeah, he's an ass." Her tone said more than calling him an ass. It was clear that she hated him. "I'm glad he got traded."

I gave her a nod, not really understanding the strange expression she gave him when he tapped the glass and winked at her.

Callie rolled her eyes, throwing back her flask again. "Like I said, he's an ass."

It was a playoff game, and everyone would be out for blood. But there was something different going on. Evan seemed to be gunning for Dave when they were on the ice during warm-ups, and then finally, when Dave's eyes were down, focused on the puck, Evan clotheslined him. I saw the hit coming a split second before it happened, as did Callie.

Dave got to his feet quickly, but surprisingly said nothing, and neither did Evan, but the glare Evan delivered to his ex-teammate over his shoulder told me something else was meant by that hit. There was no apology in Evan's stare as he scowled at Dave. By the way he ignored the shouts and stares, it made me realize this was something more than just the playoff moodiness Callie spoke of.

O'Brien wasn't happy and pointed at Evan, who skated back to the bench, head down. "What the fuck was that?" he screamed at Evan. We could hear it even across the ice.

"Oooh, this is going to be a fun game. Your boy is pissed about something."

I turned to Callie. "Maybe I'll take you up on that drink."

She handed it to me, and I took one long swig, feeling the burn and instantly relaxing.

"Oh hey, easy there, tiger..." Callie swiped the flask back. "...I said one drink."

Something was different about him. From the moment the puck hit the ice, I found it hard to catch my breath, knowing something was wrong with him. Every moment he was on the ice, he was fumbling, falling, checking guys into the board harder than before, and avoiding Dave. He'd come near Evan on the ice, even if the puck was in his zone, and he'd fall away and go to the bench. Usually when I watched Evan, he was always a passionate player. He was powerful, always strong and focused, always present, but tonight I saw none of that. He seemed distracted.