“Uh...thanks?”
“But I, uh, wanted you to know...she's right. If you need someone to step in with anyone, you should come to me.Anyone, okay Rook?”
My eyes must give away my surprise.
“I'm sorry I haven't, uh, spoken up more. But can younottell Hailey? We really don't have time to find a new Captain after she takes out a hit on Tremblay.”
I laugh at that, but I'm only half sure he's joking.
“Uh, thanks Mac. I don't think you need to do anything, but I appreciate the offer.”
“Well, let me know if that changes, okay?”
I look down at the plate, then back up at the defenseman in front of me.
“Thanks, man. For the cookies and...the other stuff.”
He nods his head and walks back out the door, leaving me in his wake.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ETHAN
If I hadto pick a single team to never play against, it would be Dallas. They're brutal and unrelenting, more obsessed with taking the puck away from us than they are with doing anything with it themselves.
Oh, and my ex is on the team.
To call Trent Langley my ex is, honestly, overgenerous. We played in juniors together, and after one particularly drunken night, exchanged hand jobs in a Days Inn in London, Ontario. One thing led to another, and before long we were getting off together most nights. We weren't particularly friendly during the day, but we played well together – in both senses of the phrase. Then I got drafted and we never spoke of it again.
It was, in many ways, my introduction to what loving another man could be like; his strong arms and musky smell answered a lot of questions that had been hanging around in my head for years. But they triggered more – was this all there was? This frantic push-and-pull in a dark hotel room in the middle of the night?
Needless to say, it wasn't the healthiest...relationship? But it was also the only time I've ever been with the same person more than once, so it's basically myonlyrelationship.
When Trent and I first played one another in the NHL, I wasn't sure what to expect. Would we grab a drink after? Re-enact some old memories? Instead, the Trent Langley I'd met that night had been as cold and hard as the ice we skated on. Before the first period was over, he'd checked me into the boards twice. The cold look of disgust in his eyes sent chills down my spine. I can still remember the panic I felt that night, sure that all the guys wouldknow, sure that Trent would tell them all.
Instead, they brushed it off as a particularly physical game and talked about what an asshole he was. In the years since then, I've particularly dreaded our games each year, even hoping for a trade so we could stop playing in the same division. No such luck. And here we were, facing our first game on home ice this year against him.
I had tried my best to warn Carter, to tell him what to expect. But he had brushed me off — and why shouldn’t he? It’s not like I’d been helpful to him so far this season.
Sure enough, the game started as fast and fierce as expected, with Carter winning a beautiful faceoff and being checked hard a split second later. Last week, a check like that got me a roughing call in Chicago; this week the refs are silent.
Dallas plays keepaway with the puck for a few minutes, maintaining possession without really putting any pressure on the goal. We switch lines and Price is finally able to grab the puck and make a move for Dallas' goal, but before long, they strip the puck again. The back-and-forth continues through the first period, with a ridiculously low number of shots on goal.
In the locker room, Ramsey reminds us to playourgame, not theirs. This would probably be more helpful if we had actually cemented “our” game yet. As it is, we've got much better parts than the last few seasons, but we're still working out how they fit together.
As the second period starts, Dallas dials up the brutality of theirplay. It seems like none of us can hold onto the puck for more than a few seconds before being checked or shoved into the boards. Finally, Langley makes a sloppy pass to their third line center.
Carter snags the pass and makes a break for the other end of the ice. The lean lines of his body pushed hard, putting him one-on-one with the Dallas goalie. He was such a sight, pulling back for a slap shot, his muscles tensing. Out of the corner of my eye, I became aware of a blur — Langley, coming in to defend the goal.
Instead of a clean hit, he reaches out with his stick — where is the ref? As I race toward the goal, I see Carter go down. Before he can even hit the ice, my gloves are off, my fist connecting squarely with Trent’s jaw. He goes down to the ice and I follow him, unable to restrain myself. Finally, I feel a strong pair of arms close around me and pull me backwards.Mac.
I come out of my rage-fueled haze and realize I’m not the only one to have jumped in. Lindy and Gagnon have both engaged with Dallas players and the linesmen are trying to separate them. A whistle sounds and as the fight starts to thin out, I see a shock of red on the ice –blood? I put a hand to my face –nothing. Langley is still on the ice, the coward. That only leaves...
...my eyes find Carter, on all fours on the ice, the drip drip drip of blood coming from his face.Oh shit. I gestured for a trainer, the team doctor, anyone. When Carter looked up, I could see a slash above his right eye, neatly bisecting his eyebrow.
I don't know how it happened, but I was skating toward Langley again, prepared to draw blood, prepared to deal with this problem. Again, I feel those same arms hold me tight.
“Ethan, let’s let the refs do their job, yeah?”
