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“Did you hear what I said?”
I responded by flipping him off. He responded by winding back and taking a slapshot.
THWACK!
I didn’t even flinch as the puck ricocheted off one of the screw conveyors at the front of the machine.
“You missed, dickhead.”
I rumbled by, skirting closely around the asshole who was still leaning on his stick. A part of me wanted to play chicken with him, to see if he moved out of the way. But it would’ve been messy if he didn’t.
“Why are you doing this?” the red-bearded goalie demanded. “I’ve still got ten minutes left.”
“We close at eleven,” I told him. “It’s well past that.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t get started until late. Locker jammed.”
“Sounds like a whole lot of your problem.”
He’d been skating around in full gear, flicking wrist shots at an empty net for the better part of an hour. Most likely because his teammates hadn’t shown up to practice shooting at him.
“The stuck locker’s your fault,” he insinuated. “Or at least the owner’s.”
“Take it up with him then.”
The asshole ripped off his helmet and spat. “Shit, I don’t even know why we practice here anymore,” he seethed, “much less play. This place is such a shithole. The roof looks like it’s going to collapse at any second.”
I shrugged. “All the more reason you should go home.”
I couldn’t argue with the shithole comment, but I certainly wasn’t going to give him an inch. We remained at a stalemate, glaring back at each other with equal amounts of disdain.
“Look man, just hit the showers already. I gotta take the nets down.” Under my breath, I stifled a curse. “I’ll tell Greg to credit you for fifteen minutes.”
“Screw that,” he spat again. “I want an hour.”
I shook my head. “You’re not getting an hour. It’s not our fault your teammates didn’t show up. You’re lucky you’re getting anything at all.”
The flame-haired asshole’s name was Devin, or Devon, or something equally ambiguous. I’d hated him since the moment I’d met him, which was unfortunately some time ago. He had a point about the lockers though, and maybe even the roof. Hell, the whole place was falling apart and the owner wasn’t doing jack shit about it. It didn’t make the guy any less of a dick, though.
“Fine, I’ll give you a half hour,” I relented. “Just get your shit and go.”
The old Zamboni ran pretty decently when you got it started, but it was a bitch to get it going again once you stopped it. You had to set all the dials correctly, and run it at just the right speed. It didn’t have any fancy digital gauges, or a laser-leveling system to keep the ice even. Everything was done by feel, by gut, by instinct.
And I’d been doing it way too fucking long.
Eventually the asshat relented, and began gathering his things. He skated up to me one last time before leaving the ice, however.
“You know… it’s not my fault you didn’t make the cut,” he smirked.
My hands balled into fists. Somehow, I willed them back open again.
“You just need more practice, that’s all,” he taunted, adding a shrug. “Maybe next season.”
Grimly I looked over my shoulder, wondering if Greg had left yet. We were probably alone. Anything could happen.
“Then again…”
No one would hear his screams. Especially over the sound of the Zamboni.
