Chapter 8
Shea
Sure, hockey's a violent sport. Just not quite like it used to be.
These days, fighting is frowned upon, which has had a series of unintended consequences on the game. There used to be a code in hockey. A respect among warriors. Back in the day, when you threw an objectionable hit, you had someone from the other team wanting to square off with you. You had to fight to clear your name and restore balance to the game.
Afraid of getting your face caved in by that hulking enforcer? Then maybe you should think twice before you slew-foot our star player.
That might sound primitive to most people, but I don't care. That was the type of hockey I grew up playing. And you know what? It was a system that worked. It kept guys honest. The game felt calmer, safer, less on-edge than it does today.
But nature abhors a vacuum. And now that fighting is frowned upon, there's a new breed of player in the league: the pest. He's a guy who skates around the ice, running his mouth all night, throwing sneaky elbows to the face, butt-ends to the ribs, cheap shots behind the play, you name it. All when the ref isn't looking, of course. And he will never answer the bell, because the fact that he doesn't fight only pisses the opposition off more.
I've watched the game change a lot over the years. I've had to rein in my style of game, just like the other tough guys have, and let things slide that we never would've let slide ten or fifteen years ago.
Seeing Brynn snatch the phone away from that rude fan reminded me of that fact. There was a time when I was younger, meaner, and I didn't take any shit on the ice from anybody.
I'm not sure when I started to lose that edge. I suppose it happened slowly, day by day. Age had something to do with it too, I'm sure. Seeing this game as my career rather than my dream played a big part too. Whatever the exact cause was—somewhere down the line, it happened.
Tonight, though, I wasn't going to stand for it.
And the goalie is the one guy on the team that I will not let you mess with.
So when our goalie, Ilya, pounced on a loose puck to freeze the play, and Kevin Kasdorf kept whacking at Ilya's hands to try to make him lose the puck—even after the ref blew the whistle—we had a serious problem.
Kasdorf is the Calgary Fire's resident shit-stirrer. The exact sort of gutless clown that I just described to a tee. And I'd already warned him about his extracurricular activities too many times to count tonight.
It was time to take out the garbage.
I dropped my shoulder and, with an explosive step forward, powered my momentum straight through Kasdorf's sternum. It was a hard hit, and Kasdorf would've hit the ice regardless—but the way he turned into a rag doll, arms and legs flailing as his limp body sailed through the air, was so shameful it turned my stomach. It didn't matter to him if he looked weak; all he cared about was selling the call. Not a shred of self-respect in that kid's body.
Pathetic.
Kasdorf's teammates grabbed hold of me, and we pushed and shoved, trading gloved shots to the face. Desperate to restore order, the refs blew their whistles again, loud and long and shrill.
Kasdorf acted like I'd really rung his bell. He slowly staggered to his knees—until he realized that neither ref had signaled for a penalty against me. Then, the pissy little bastard suddenly made a miraculous recovery. He jumped up to his skates and rushed over to the closest ref, angrily screeching about how I should've gotten a penalty for hitting him after the whistle.
I broke free from the scrum and coasted by Kasdorf. “We can settle this right now, Kasdorf.”
But fighting wasn't an option for him and we both knew it. He ignored me, pleading his case to the refs instead.
“You can dish it out but you can't take it, eh Kasdorf? You'd rather run to Mommy and Daddy and let them solve all your problems?”
That finally got his attention. “Look at you, Grandpa! You're really movin' tonight! Did the doctors tweak your meds? Haven't seen you with this much pep in your step since '02!”
“Talk is cheap, Kasdorf. Drop the gloves and let's go.”
He cackled. “You're not worth my time, Ellis. The game has passed you by.”
My nostrils flared. “Big talk from a plug that won't fight.”
“I won't fight a geriatric, no.” He threw his head back and laughed. “Hey, Ellis, just curious, how's your ex-wife doing? How's the kids?”
I didn't know what the hell he knew—or thought he knew—about my family. But frankly, I didn't care. He'd lit my damned fuse and I chugged towards the bastard like a runaway train.
Kasdorf's eyes grew wide and a look of pure 'oh shit' spread across his smarmy face. He ducked, putting the referee's body between us as a shield. I threw my gloves to the ice, reaching over the ref with my bare hands, and grabbed hold of Kasdorf's jersey. The ref tried to push me away, but I was too furious to be stopped. I shoved the ref out of the way and wrestled Kasdorf away from his protection.
Pulling Kasdorf by the jersey, we glided into open ice, where we could trade punches without refs or teammates getting in the way. Kasdorf grappled my arms, trying to prevent me from getting a hand free to fight with.
“Hey hey hey!” Kasdorf barked. “I don't wanna fight!”
I yanked and tugged, trying to work my arms free so we could finally square off and have a fair fight.
“Drop 'em, Kasdorf—”
Pop.
My head shot back, recoiling from a sudden blunt force.
In one fast motion, Kasdorf had thrown his gloves off and socked me right on the eye. It stunned me. It shouldn't have—I should've known that the punk would never square off and agree to a fair fight.
A stream of warmth ran down my face. I was cut, and the metallic taste of blood trickled onto my lips.
Kasdorf wasn't going to wait for me to regain my wits before he started swinging again, either.
“Yeah yeah yeah!” he whooped as his fist slammed into my jaw. Another fist deflected off the side of my helmet. Another caught me square on the chin.
Shit.
This was going badly.
I had to stop the onslaught.
I charged forward and bear-hugged Kasdorf to tie up his arms. There, the same battle played out again: two men trying to free their arms. Only this time, I was a lot more pissed.
Sensing the fight had run its course, the refs rushed in and tried to split us up.
“Yep! We're done here!” Kasdorf encouraged them, hoping he could squeak out a win on a dirty fight.
“No!” I roared at the refs. “Back off!”
Out of respect to a veteran player, the refs backed away.
“Hey!” Kasdorf yelled, imploring the refs to come back. “Where the hell are you idiots going?”
“You wanna fight dirty, Kasdorf? 'Cause I can do that, too.”
“No no no!”
I grabbed hold of Kasdorf's collar and yanked his jersey over his head. With his face covered, he never saw the series of haymakers coming. With each punch that impacted Kasdorf's obscured face, the Boston crowd roared louder.
When I felt Kasdorf's knees go weak, I knew he was done. I let go, dumped the pest to the ice, and skated to the penalty box to a raucous ovation.
***
After a hard-fought win, every guy in that room will be smiling from to ear. Euphoria bursts from our hearts and souls. There's this sense that all is right in the world, that the forces of good have finally conquered over evil.
It's one hell of an addictive drug.
Once we're back in that room and the sweat-soaked gear starts to come off, the oral history of the game begins—the story of every goal, every picture-perfect pass, every key shot block and cutting insult on the ice is retold and relived to a howling chorus of laughter.
Tonight, though, all the boys wanted to talk about was my fight.
“That was some sweet old-time hockey out there, Boomer!”
“Kasdorf finally got a dose of his own medicine.”
“I didn't hear a fuckin' peep out of Kasdorf's beak the rest of the game, by the way. The little shit was on his best behavior after that!”
“How'd it feel, Shea?”
It'd taken twenty-two stitches to close the gash above my eye, and my puffy, busted-open knuckles were currently throbbing against a bag of ice. But all that said?
“Pretty damn good,” I said with a grin. “Might not feel so good tomorrow.”
“You fed that rat-fucker his lunch,” Lance said. “Actually, you were throwing your weight around all game long. Every time I saw someone land a big hit, I looked up and saw ol' Boomer standing over some poor dude he just clobbered. What got into you tonight, anyway?”
I shrugged. “Don't know. Something about that team just rubs me the wrong way. I hate 'em. It's Kasdorf, mostly.”
Everyone grunted in agreement.
“Oh yeah.”
“Guy's a fuckin' coward.”
“Fuck him.”
“Um, hello,” Ilya said as he peeled off his sweat-soaked goalie equipment. “Boomer hires a hot nanny and suddenly plays like he's twenty years old again. And people believe this is only a coincidence?”
“Aaaaaah!” everyone sang, as the topic of the day reemerged once more.
“Not this again,” I said, but I couldn't hide my smile. Because there was some truth to that after all, wasn't there? Yeah, I had some small hopes that Brynn would work out as our nanny. And so maybe I happened to play a little more inspired tonight. So what?
“See! He's smiling! He knows it's true!” Ilya said, pointing a finger.
“So how hot is she, anyway?” Brooksy asked.
I peeled off the last of my sweaty clothes and wrapped a towel around my bare mid-section. “You guys seriously won't give it up, will you?”
“Nope. Not until you tell us,” Ilya said.
“Is she a seven? An eight? Jesus, is she a nine?” Brooksy asked.
“Sorry. I'm not going to rate my nanny.” I made for the showers, leaving the bozos behind. “Can't believe I even have to say those words.”
“Just make a move on her, Shea!” someone called after me.
“Yeah, she'll go for you!” someone else yelled.
I rolled my eyes.
If only things were so simple.