Chapter 33
A Little More Hockey
Ella
One week later.
The crowd at Madison Square Garden gnashed their teeth and groaned, but I cheered as Ryan and Lance and the rest of the Brawlers on the ice celebrated another goal with a group hug. The Brawlers were dismantling the hometown New York Scouts, and it was all because of Ryan and Lance's spectacular play together.
Ryan spotted me in the front row, skated by, and gave me a wink. With butterflies in my stomach, I blew him a kiss.
An older couple sitting next to me, dressed in Scouts jerseys, put two and two together. The wife asked me, pointing Ryan out, “is he your boyfriend?”
I could barely contain my smile when I gave her an emphatic “yes!”
“Well, he's the enemy, so we're obligated to hate him … but … looks like you picked a good one.”
“Thank you.”
I couldn't wait for this game to be over so we could be together again at last—seven days had never felt so long in my life. I was a huge Boston Brawlers fan now, having watched all three games they'd played since my visit to Boston.
It was so much fun watching Ryan's heroics on the TV. And Lance's too, for that matter. Ever since last week, Ryan and Lance had somehow grown even closer, and their play on the ice showed it. Not only were they skating circles around their opponents, but if anyone looked at Lance the wrong way—or God forbid, hit him—Ryan turned into an angry bull-dog, jealously and rabidly defending his teammate.
As soon as Ryan made it back home or to his hotel room after the game, he would call me up on the phone and ask sweetly—“Hi Ella, how was your day?”—as if he wasn't just scoring goals and crushing grown men in a nationally-televised hockey game only an hour or two ago.
I loved our conversations on the phone—there was nothing so uplifting as being able to hear his voice and feel like there was a light at the end of the tunnel. But, then again, talking with him was a special kind of torture, too—because after we hung up, I felt sad and empty and wished more than anything I could have him near.
When we couldn't talk during the day, there was always a text here or there to keep each other in mind. I may have sent him a few dirty pictures … and I may have even gotten a few in return! Not a day went by without him letting me know how badly he wanted me, how he couldn't stop thinking about the way I left him at the airport …
It's pretty safe to say that, once the horn at Madison Square Garden sounded and the game was over, I was expecting Ryan to change out of his hockey gear in a hurry. Surely he'd come find me, throw me over his shoulder like a possessive caveman, and rush me back home where he could have his way with me, right? We'd been teasing each other all week, building to this moment …
But that wasn't what happened at all.
Who came for me instead? Lance, with Shea and Ilya in tow. The three of them were in suits and fresh out of the shower, with their hair wet and neatly styled.
“Hey Honey Badger!” Lance said, greeting me with a hug. “You remember Shea and Ilya?”
“Of course, hi guys,” I answered, skipping right to the point, “where's Ryan?”
“He snuck out the back entrance a little while ago, actually,” Lance said as if it were totally normal for a guy to evade his girlfriend like that.
“What?” I asked, my heart pounding with a worrying sickness.
Was this it? Was Ryan just another coward, the kind of guy who couldn't even look a girl in the face when he broke up with her? Had I been played that badly? Lance said he never went for the same girl twice, after all …
“What do you mean, he snuck out?” I asked. “Why would he do that?”
Lance shook his head. “Come with us. I'll explain in the car.”
I followed them out, down to the staff entrance, where a car was waiting. The four of us climbed in and the car took off and exited the arena.
“Would you tell me what this is about already, Lance?” I asked, growing shrill and testy with my brother.
“Sheesh. Settle down, Honey Bager. It's not my fault. Look, Radar said, uh, that he felt like playing a little more hockey.”
“He wanted to play a little more hockey.” I repeated the sentence slowly, punctuating the absurdity of it all, hoping Lance could hear how ridiculous the words sounded.
My stare must've been burning through his skin, because Lance shielded himself from my gaze. “Hey, don't shoot the messenger, man. I'm just repeating what he told me.”
The guys all chuckled—and I figured, if they were laughing, then this must not be a bad thing … maybe some sort of practical joke of Ryan's … I didn't figure him to be the joker type, and this stunt didn't make me happy, but whatever …
I loosened up a bit, resigning myself to the fact that whatever was happening was apparently Ryan's idea. I quietly watched the city roll by my window, hoping that his idea was a good one.
We headed west. The driver turned on the West Side Highway, and then we headed south.
Chelsea Piers came into view on our right, and the driver turned into the parking lot.
“Here we are,” Lance said.
“Chelsea Piers …” I mumbled, remembering my conversation with Ryan during our first dinner date at MacAllister's. “Is this what I think it is?”
Lance wouldn't say. “They're about to drop the puck. We better hurry!”
We rushed into the building, made our way to the rink, and stood in the front row right behind the glass. Two teams were warming up—a beer league game. After watching a professional hockey game, watching this rag-tag group of guys lumber around the ice reminded me of drunken snails on ice.
“This won't be pretty,” Shea said.
“These guys are rough,” Ilya remarked.
“Scrubs,” Lance laughed.
Of course, one among them didn't look nearly so bad. Ryan circled around the ice humbly. I could tell he was trying not to showcase his skill and was trying to blend in instead—but even from the way he glided, you could see he knew what he was doing. He was too big, too smooth, too elegant, to be some random beer league player.
At the other end of the rink, skating for the opponent, was my ex-boyfriend: Matthew, the asshole lawyer.
I turned to Lance. “Ryan's not seriously going to do what I think he's about to do, is he?”
He smirked knowingly. “Radar doesn't let anybody bother me without making them pay for it. You think he's going to let this sleaze get away with insulting you? Not a chance.”
The ref dropped the puck, and the game began.
It was only a matter of time—Matthew, the puck-hog 'star' of his team, took the puck from his own defensive end and started skating at top speed in a straight line. Ryan, playing defense and skating backwards, matched Matthew's top speed with a single stride. He pinched off Matthew's lane and began to steer the lawyer towards the boards. We all knew what was coming—it was like watching a car accident unfold in slow motion.
“Here we go, boys!” Shea shouted.
Ilya turned his eyes away. “This is too brutal, I can't even watch!”
Right in front of us, Ryan lowered his shoulder and powered his mass right through Matthew, sweeping him off his skates as if he weighed nothing and pasting the dirt-bag face-first into the glass.
BOOOOOM. The thud of Matthew's body smashing into the glass echoed around the empty rink. Only inches away from my ex's smashed face, I waved at him, though I doubted that he could see anything but stars at the moment.
Matthew tumbled to the ice.
“Gotta keep your head up, kid.” Ryan yelled as he skated off.
Slowly, Matthew staggered to his skates. “That was a cheap shot!” he screamed. He skated towards Ryan, throwing his gloves to the ice in the process. “You're fucking dead!”
Ilya winced. “He's seriously challenging Radar to a fight?”
Shea agreed. “He definitely shouldn't have done that.”
Lance laughed. “Yuuup. This is about to get ugly.”
Ryan threw off his gloves, and when Matthew neared, he easily blocked Matthew's first strike like someone swatting away an annoying fly. Ryan then grabbed the collar of Matthew's jersey and fed him one solid right after another: one, two, three, and then Matthew's legs turned into jelly and he spilled to the ice.
The referee skated over and told Ryan he was ejected from the game.
“There's no fighting in this beer league,” Shea said. “They're both banned now.”
Ilya looked at his watch. “Radar's beer league career lasted what, fifteen seconds? Too bad. We'll have to keep him on the Brawlers.”
We watched as Matthew needed help climbing to his legs. The refs escorted him off the ice, too. Blood ran freely from his brow. He looked over his shoulder to see me and the boys. The four of us happily waved back at him. He looked so mad and embarrassed.
“It's nice having him stand up for you, isn't it?” Lance asked.
“I could definitely get used to this,” I giggled.
“Well boys, ready to go?” Lance asked. The two others nodded. “You stay here, Ella, and wait for Radar.”
“Where are you guys going?”
Lance and his teammates smiled like a trio of trouble-makers. “I heard this Matthew guy is a big fan of mine, right? I just wanna pay a fan a little visit.”
“Don't do anything stupid, guys. He is a lawyer, don't forget.”
“We won't do anything illegal,” Shea said.