Delayed Penalty (6 page)

"I thought you were with Wendy?" I asked when we walked toward the elevators.

Leo looked over at me, his attention diverted from his phone as he ran a hand over his smirk. "I was. You were in her room for like an hour. I didn't need that long with Wendy. You saw those fucking legs, right?"

I let out an amused laugh but didn't answer.

"A man only has so much restraint, and besides..." He tucked his phone in his pocket when the elevator stopped and we walked to the cafeteria. "...You need someone tonight."

"I'm fine, Leo. You don't need to babysit me."

"I know. I want to be here with you." His eyes followed a tall redheaded nurse as she walked around the corner. "For a lot of reasons. Je-sus!" He shook his head. "Do they make it a rule in this hospital that you have to be smoking fucking hot?"

"No idea."

We ended up getting some food. None of it looked appealing, but we ate regardless. "What did you guys end up doing the other night?" I asked Leo, wondering how much trouble they got into when they went out after the Detroit game.

Leo groaned. "Man, it was a fucking disaster. Remy got into a fight with some asshole that was already roughed up when he got there. Remy pushed him and then I don't even know what happened to Dave and Travis. I ended up meeting up with them in the morning for a little while, but I can't remember half the shit that happened."

"When did you guys get home?"

"Four? I'm not sure. I met back up with Dave and Travis around seven. I think. They both looked like hell. I didn't realize they took so many licks in that game with Detroit, but man, both of them looked like shit. So do you, by the way."

I did look like shit. I knew that. I had no idea what I looked like but the memory of standing in the shower this morning, washing away an innocent girl
'
s blood gave me an idea as to my appearance.

And then I thought about Ami, and nothing compared to what that girl went through, or what she was about to go through.

Game 37 – Nashville Predators

December 26, 2009

The morning was cold and dreary, which didn't help my mood, as I drove from my condo to the airport where we were set to catch a plane to Nashville.

Preparing for a game was all about routine, and for me it started early.

Before a home game, we had our morning skate at the United Center, followed by lunch. Then we went home. Some took naps while others just rested and mentally prepared themselves for the game. Usually I took a nap, but sometimes I would just lie there or watch TV.

Then we would head back to the arena for the game. After the game the guys would get together for dinner and drinks, not always, but most of the time. Away games were slightly different but mostly the same, aside from squeezing in travel and we weren't home ice.

The problem with my routine and my mood was that a fucking girl was wrecking it. A girl I hadn't even met. On one hand I was excited to get back on the road and play hockey, but on the other, I was a wreck because I had this girl in my head.

Worst of all, what happened to her haunted me.

When Coach O'Brien blew his whistle, the thought of Ami drifted and the unwanted drills began.

Our head coach, Mark O'Brien, was not someone who was easy to like, but he was respected. He didn't slap backs, fist-bump—nothing. The only way you knew you were doing well and he was happy was if he yelled at you. When he was silent, then you should worry.

If he talked to reporters after the game, he was all business, no smile, keeping his eyes above them.

It was a rarity, but if he took a player aside, he spoke to them and took the time to explain something that, to him, was annoyingly clear, they were able to get inside his head and see he wasn't that bad of a guy, just misunderstood.

And then he remembered who he was, and he was back to being not easy to like.

I was cool with him, never had any problems. I didn't care too much for our assistant coach, Duane O'Callaghan. Without any flair or fucking charm, he was about as abrasive as sandpaper and exploded for just about anything. He was Irish, too, if that told you anything.

Remy and Duane
never
got along. They couldn't even be in the same room together, and if he had it his way, he'd trade him, but we needed Remy. He knew that. I rarely felt favored by either coach, but I knew they ultimately liked me. Leo was their favorite because he scored more than anyone in the league.

O'Callaghan was leaning on the boards, yelling at Remy about something when my mind drifted back to the other night. I saw her lying in the snow and the blood she was covered in. The images of me in the shower, the blood, her blood, being washed away, but the memory still remained, still burned its way in my skin. Every single thought I had had shifted and was now about her. And it pissed me off every time, and I found myself getting more and more aggressive trying to clear the thoughts.

I hadn't been on the ice since I found her. Leo noticed my mood our first morning in Nashville. When we were in the locker room prior to the game, he voiced this concern.

"What's your problem?"

"Nothing." I tried to focus on taping my stick, but Remy wasn't letting me off that easy.

He shoved against my shoulder, sending me rocking slightly. "Who's the girl?"

"None of your fucking business."

"She got a sister?"

Leo gave Remy a look. "Lay off man."

"No way..." Remy continued pushing, "...you jerks are always baggin' on my girls. What's with you, Mase?"

Leo and I exchanged a look. His voice dropped to maintain a certain amount of privacy we didn't have in the locker room. "Her family is dead. No, she ain't got no sister, and she's barely alive right now. Not exactly a time to be dishin' on her."

"Oh." Remy looked chastised.

"Yeah, don't be a dick," Leo said, reaching for the tape in my hand. "Leave his girl alone."

"She's not
my
girl," I said, throwing my stick and walking away. "She's just
a
girl."

I thought maybe when warm-ups began the boys would drop the questions surrounding Ami, those that knew at least, but they didn't.

"Honestly, man, have you heard anything?" Leo asked, nudging me forward in the line we were waiting in, each one of us taking shots at the goal.

I shrugged. "No." I took my turn at a shot during warm-ups and then circled around the back of the line. Leo did the same and then came up behind me. "I called the hospital when we landed and no word yet."

"You still hung up on her?"

"I wouldn't say I'm hung up on her. Just concerned."

"She's in your zone." His mood shifted, we looked up and saw Cage shove Remy away from him. Instead of trying to shoot the puck for practice, Remy took his stick and waited around the back side of the net. When guys would go for the shot, he'd smack Cage in the back of the head. "Oh man..." He took the end of his stick and jabbed my ribs. "...I forgot to ask you, how was that girl after the Bruins game. She looked wicked."

"Man," I groaned, looking over my shoulder as I remembered the raven haired beauty I took home a few weeks back. "Seriously, five times that night she wanted to go. I finally had to tell her to leave."

With Leo's shit-eating grin and Remy leaning over the boards like he couldn't look at me, I knew something was up.

I looked at Leo. Leo looked at me.

"Are you mic'd up?" I finally asked, taking a shot, unamused. This wasn't the first time Leo had done that shit to me. He once got me talkin' shit about Sid Holgrove, a defenseman with the Boston Bruins, only to find out we were filming a commercial together the next day. I had some explaining to do.

"Yep." He beamed, twirling around as though he was a figure skater. I followed his head tip toward the monitors. "Gotta love ESPN."

"You know..." I shoved him against Remy who approached us, knocking them both into Travis. "...both of you are assholes."

"Mase!" Leo gestured to the camera pointed at us. "Keep it PG-13 for the kids."

I wanted to say so much more but didn't.

Coach was eyeing us so calmly; horsing around was done.

When the game started, my mind was focused, but there was always a piece that was going back to Ami. The fact that I couldn't get her out of my head was pissing me off.

Action brought me back to the game. Play was focused in the crease, and it was my job to defend our goal.

My job as a defensemen was to stop an incoming play at the blue line. I broke the plays up, blocked shots, covered forwards, and cleared the puck in front of the goal. If someone was roughing up our forwards, I was also in their face answering the bell.

Offensively speaking, I got the puck to the forwards and followed play into the attacking zone, staying around the blue line at the points.

I wasn't a high scorer since it wasn't my job. My job was to defend and protect with my own style. And I had my own style. Starting out as a forward in junior hockey, I learned speed and accuracy. Then they moved me to a defender position when they saw how forceful I was with the puck.

Turns out it was a good fit for me.

I tended to play with speed and force where guys like Leo would control the puck and slow the plays down, but he had crazy stick skills. It was what we needed and exactly why he was our captain.

I got Leo the puck, and he got the goal. I scored, too, just not as often as the forwards did.

My first NHL goal actually came in game two this year from an assist off Leo.

Play was in the Predators zone at the blue line, quickly moving forward. The puck rolled to Harding, the Predators' goalie, who covered it with his catching glove. Everyone stopped, except for me. I raced for Harding, stopping inches from him, throwing a spray of snow in his face, hacking at his glove again and again. Getty, their left wing, shoved me back, and Harding rolled the puck to another defenseman to my right, and play started back the other way.

This happened every possession change.

A quick pass to Noel, then Foster with the Predators, and it was two-on-one at our blue line with only Travis hanging back. Leo, with his speed, shot up ice and hooked the puck away and followed through onto bare ice.

A shoving match broke out at the crease again. This time it was Remy and Hunt.

For someone with his obvious talent, Remy seemed remarkable. He believed what he said and fuck if he didn't practice it. He was tough, too. That motherfucker would knock your teeth out as soon as you turned your back.

"Oh, I'll catch ya with your head down, all right!" Remy shouted back, commotion all around him and Nashville's rookie center.

Nashville called a timeout after that. We stood huddled around the bench, Leo humping his stick and poking it into Ryan's ear. Ryan Shaw, another rookie on our team, sat on the bench with a still fuming Remy.

When play resumed, action moved quickly end to end. No scoring, just fast aggressive play.

Shift changes with the four lines moved freely, everyone taking their turn to spin the game our direction or gain the jump on Nashville.

When you were on the bench you saw the game differently. You saw it for what it was: adrenaline, desire, commitment, heart, sweat, and even ruthlessness at times. You could see the plays, the shit your team was fucking up, and you could see the skill in players you never noticed before.

Like Travis Sono, a right wingman for us. He had hands that were quick and skilled to perfection. On the ice, I never saw that because my focus was on the game.

Since late October, Leo, Remy, Travis, Dave, and I formed a line with Cage defending the pipes. We usually started games and ended them. It was just the way it was. Four lines were actively played each night, rotating every thirty seconds to a minute; the time varied. Your first and second lines were the scorers, the guys that made the plays. The third and fourth lines were the penalty killers and the checkers.

Play stopped at Nashville's blue line. Dave and a defender with Nashville were chirping at each other. Dave got called on roughing and then was slapped with a major when he took a swing after the whistle. He seemed intense tonight, off maybe. We all had nights like that. Hell, I was having one.

Dave, though quiet and unassuming at times, had a mean streak on the ice. I'd seen it before, and I knew if Nashville didn't knock that shit off, they'd be seeing more of Dave tonight. Already marked up from the game with the Red Wings a few days ago, he looked pretty fierce with six stitches above his black eye.

When I first moved to Chicago last year, I stayed with Dave, and he became a good friend to me. Having never been to the city, it was nice to have someone hang out with who could show me around, someone who understood the lifestyle we had. He'd been playing for Chicago for four years and was the captain of the team until Leo showed up. Bitter maybe, at the changes when Leo came, but definitely enjoyed the freedom of not being the captain.

My time spent living with Dave was interesting. That guy saw more action that Hugh Hefner. I didn't know what he did to get them there, but he had a revolving door of women. The summer after my first season, I decided to get my own place. That lifestyle wasn't for me.

When the puck dropped, Nashville got possession, end to end, hard aggressive play again.

"Look up, look up!" Leo yelled from his place on the bench. He could see Cage, our goalie, shift his position the wrong direction.

Cage had his fucking head down, and Benny snagged the pocket for the tie.

Roughing was called at the crease. Remy had shoved another winger, knocked him down, and then made a suggestive move that implied more than what the refs thought was appropriate. I couldn't imagine why they'd think Remy making motions of him sucking his dick wasn't appropriate.

Remy earned himself a five minute major, bowed to the fans, and then flipped them off. Nashville had their power play they were looking for. The crowd was on their feet howling in response.

My shift was approaching. Travis and I took to the ice while Jeff and Karl hit the bench.