Enforcer (12 page)

After reassuring himself that it had only been a dream, he looked at the clock. It was just after five in the morning. He turned over and tried to go back to sleep but his mind wouldn’t shut off, wouldn’t let go of the nightmare. All he could see was the decaying corpses of Niklas and Travis. Connor decided to get up and take a shower to clear his head. He had morning practice in four hours and game later that evening.

As the hot water sprayed down on his face and shoulders, he finally scrubbed the nightmare from his mind. It was replaced by Jera. Jera’s dark skin, her hard eyes, her small but round breasts that had a slight upwards curve at the nipples. The collar around her neck no longer dirty leather, but black lace with a pendant in the middle.

Connor shut the water off and grabbed his towel. He tried to focus on the task of drying off, getting dressed, and walking to the Starbucks for coffee. His brain kept wandering back to Jera. Jera. Always Jera. He hated her, hated her stench, hated her foul mouth, hated the way she looked at him as if she were imagining what he’d look like with a knife sticking out of his throat. He hated the way she always defended her tweaker boyfriend, how she always went to him each time Connor or Petre hurt him.

What he hated most was how he imagined her being passed back and forth between other sweaty, dirty, disgusting junkies. Or maybe it was rich suburban kids who could afford the weekend meth highs after acing their honors tests. Old men with hair growing out of places that should never have hair. Abusive men who liked hurting her, liked making her beg for mercy as they did terrible things to her sexually.

The cold January air froze and shattered his thoughts within the first five steps outside of the apartment. It was cold enough to freeze the mucus in his nose each time he breathed in, melting it when he exhaled. By the time he reached the gate at the back of the apartment complex, his nose felt like someone had repeatedly shoved marbles up it and then made him sneeze them back out.

“Good morning, Connor!” Alice said with cheer as he stepped up to the counter of the coffee shop.

She rang him up without even asking him what he wanted. He gave her a genuine smile, appreciating her looks not for the first time. Alice was a little thing, barely five feet tall, skinny as a fencepost. Her brown hair was tucked under her mandatory green visor, the ponytail swaying from side to side as she chatted with customers and rang up orders.

“Hey, you,” Dana said to him, a reserved look on her face as if she wasn’t sure whether this was normal Connor or upset Connor standing in front of her serving counter.

“Hi, Dana,” Connor said to her.

“Did you guys play last night?” she asked as she made a double-espresso for the customer who had ordered before Connor.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Did you win?” she asked with a smile.

“Yeah, we won 4-1,” he answered with a smile of his own.

“How did you do?”

“I got an assist and an ejection.”

“You got kicked out of the game?”

“Yeah. I pounded some guy who was double-teaming one of our boys.”

“Did you make him bleed?” she asked with a sly grin and a wink.

“I always make them bleed,” he laughed.

Dana laughed with him, turning away for a moment as she poured his coffee. When her back was to him, he noticed her shape, her tight black slacks fitting over curves that he’d either ignored or never paid much attention to before. He couldn’t tell what the rest of her looked like under the green apron, but if the rest of her looked anything like her face and what her slacks displayed, he’d definitely give her a second and third look. Even if she had a mutant growing out of her stomach, he’d probably give her a second look.

“Playing tonight?” she asked as she put his coffee on the serving counter.

“Yep, game is at seven.”

“Good luck,” she said, a wink accompanying the smile she gave him.

“Thanks,” he said, staring at her eyes a little too long before turning to leave, feeling uncomfortable that he was being creepy. He took a step before forcing himself to turn around again.

“Hey, Dana?” he asked as she began working on another customer’s drink.

“Did I forget something?” she asked, looking up from her task.

“No. I uh… do you want to… you know, go to the game tonight?”

“Really?” she asked.

“I mean, you don’t have to. We get some tickets for each game for family or friends. I never give mine away. You can pick them up at the will-call window. You don’t have to go though.” His words came out in a rush, making him feel like a thirteen year old boy.

“I’d love to go!” she said, putting another coffee on the service counter and calling out the customer’s name.

“How many tickets do you need?” he asked.

“I only need one. I don’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s no problem. We get four, so if you want to take someone, your boyfriend maybe, and a couple of other friends.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she told him.

“Uh… your girlfriend then?” When she glanced up and gave him a strange look, he immediately apologized. “I didn’t mean…I’m sorry. I just thought…”

“I don’t have a girlfriend either. Mostly because I don’t swing that way,” she said, her lips pursed into a tight line.

Connor tried to apologize again, his embarrassment easily visible as he turned bright red while stumbling over his words. Dana couldn’t keep her face straight, and began to giggle. His embarrassment turned to confusion.

“It’s okay, I’m just messing with you. I’m not a lesbian, and I don’t have a boyfriend. Don’t look so embarrassed,” she said.

Alice had been listening, and burst out laughing. “I have been asking her out for over a year, and I can tell you that either I’m ugly, or she’s not gay.”

“You aren’t ugly,” Connor said at the same moment Dana did, their voices synced in almost perfect stereo.

All three of them laughed a little too loudly, the three customers sitting at the tables staring up at them for a few seconds.

“You can take Alice. She’ll get her date and when the game is over, I’ll get mine,” Connor joked.

“Deal,” Dana said and turned away, her face red.

“I’d love to, but I have classes tonight,” Alice said.

“So, I guess just you then?” he asked Dana.

“Yes,” Dana answered. “Do I just give them my name?”

“Yeah, just tell them your name. They’ll have them.”

“See you there, and good luck tonight,” she said.

Connor was ten feet down the sidewalk before he remembered he had no clue what Dana’s last name was. When he walked back into the coffee shop, both girls were still giggling.

“Dana Foster,” she told him when he asked what name to put the tickets under.

CHAPTER 11

Connor glanced out into the crowd at where Dana should be seated. The seats that the team gave the players weren’t exactly the best, but the arena was small and there was no real “nosebleed” section. He knew he should be paying attention to the game, but he hadn’t had a shift at all in the second period, and probably wouldn’t get one with only three minutes left before intermission. Instead of paying attention to the action on the ice, his mind kept wandering back to the curves of the Starbucks girl in her tight slacks.

A slap on the back of his helmet from Coach Walters broke his daydreaming.

“You’re up Dunzer,” Walters said, leaning down near his shoulder. “Number nineteen has been running Gansy all game.”

Connor heard the real meaning of the words.
Take care of it, but try to get him into the box with you.

“Got it, Coach,” Connor said, snapping the strap of his helmet in place and putting his hands on the dasher to jump over the boards the instant play stopped.

“Smoke his stupid ass,” Andre Jergens said from his left.

Connor grinned at the funny German’s accent, who was even more humorous thanks to barely topping five and a half feet. Multiple whistles sounded as the puck went over the glass. Coach Walters slapped him on the shoulder pads again and he was over the boards and on the ice, skating around for a few seconds to get the blood flowing, having been parked at the end of the bench for almost eighteen minutes.

“What’s up, killer?” one of the Titans asked him, a snooty little French-Canadian named Toussant.

“What did you say?” Connor asked him, his stomach immediately knotting in fear that somehow the little guy knew about his role in Travis Benkula’s murder.

“I say, ‘what’s up, killer?’ Did I say it wrong?” Toussant asked.

Connor grinned, the fear draining away as he realized the little man was just being funny. Toussant was probably another young kid who grew up thinking Connor Dunsmore was going to be the next god of hockey.

“Nah,” Connor answered as he lined up on the face-off circle next to the Québécois. He raised his voice loud enough for number nineteen to hear him. “I’m going to make Valentine eat his own teeth.”

The linesman turned around and skated toward Connor, giving him a warning look. Connor offered the linesman a look of innocence and a shrug, as if to say
I wasn’t doing anything.
The linesman gave him another glare before skating back toward the two players waiting to take the face-off. Connor looked over at Valentine, who gave him a wolf’s grin even though there was fear in his eyes. A stick tap on the ice got his attention. He looked to his left to see Davenport, one of the Titans’ fourth-liners, scowling at him.

The linesman dropped the puck and Connor gave Toussant a light slash across the boot of his skate before making a beeline straight to Valentine. Luck was with him as the face-off went to Valentine, who saw the puck and Connor coming toward him at the same time. He flicked the puck off the boards just as Connor hit him with a shoulder, hearing a satisfying “oof” as the Titan fell to the ice. Connor peeled off and headed to his position, but Davenport caught him from behind, jamming the blade of his stick into the back of Connor’s knee.

He turned and dropped his gloves without even bothering to see who it was. Davenport grinned and dropped his own gloves. They came together in a flurry of quick fists and short jabs that glanced off each other’s chins and visors. Connor had a tight grip on Davenport’s jersey with his left hand, his right alternating between rocket punches to the man’s chin and trying to grab the back of Davenport’s helmet to get it off.

Davenport was a few years younger and a few pounds lighter, but he was an experienced fighter, and kept his head out of reach for a few seconds. Connor felt the man’s right fist connect with his cheekbone two or three times, before Connor reeled him in by the jersey and got his helmet off. Davenport struggled to get his jab going, but Connor had him pulled in too close. Without his helmet, the Titan felt the sting of Connor’s big right hand as it connected with his ear and the back of his head.

Connor pushed him back just enough to get a haymaker thrown, but the other player let go of his jersey and stunned him momentarily with a jab to his nose. It was just enough to make Connor pause, and Davenport’s right hand came around with force, connecting squarely with Connor’s left eye. The force of the blow buckled Connor’s legs, and he almost went down. He would have, if he hadn’t had the Titans’ jersey locked in his left hand.

Davenport rained blows on Connor’s head, one after another, and Connor’s legs buckled again, this time going to his knees. The ref stepped in to break them up, figuring Connor was done for, but Connor waved him off with his right hand to keep the fight from being finished before he was. Davenport gave him a grin as he rose from his knees. Connor noticed the man was missing at least four of his front teeth.

He gave the Titan a quick blow, just getting the bottom edge of his chin. As his opponent leaned back from it, Connor reeled him back in, this time connecting solidly with Davenport’s forehead. His hand erupted in pain, but the adrenaline was flowing, erasing the pain in a fraction of a second as Connor felt himself getting the upper hand. He gave two quick punches to the stomach of the opposing player, not doing any damage, but causing the man to lower his guard to defend against it.

The instant he did, Connor let go of the jersey with his left hand, grabbing it again with his right, and laying into Davenport with his left fist. Three solid hits to Davenport’s face made the other man’s knees buckle this time, and a fourth and final shot brought the man to his knees. His grip on Connor’s jersey caused Connor to fall forward, and both men collapsed to the ice.

The ref and the linesmen rushed in, pulled the two apart, and yelled in their ears to stop, the fight was over. Connor looked down at Davenport, worried that the man had hit his head on the ice. It was one of the greatest fears for a hockey player. The ice, three-quarters of an inch thick and frozen at around twenty degrees, was harder than concrete, and could shatter skulls from heavy impact. A lot of fights ended with both players wrestling each other to the ice, sometimes falling heavily on their opponents and driving their heads into it at high velocity.

“You all right?” Connor asked him as the linesmen pulled them apart.

Davenport gave him a grin and a slight wave of his hand to let him know his head was okay. The red marks on his face said otherwise, but that was one of the downsides to fighting. Connor had no problems punching someone’s face enough to make it bleed, but he never wanted anyone to be injured permanently, and especially didn’t want anyone to get a concussion or skull fracture from landing head-first on the cold playing surface.