This doesn’t mean I’m going to give my best hockey to these assholes, though.
What I’m going to do is bide my time.
In less than twenty-four hours, Patrick is going to walk in here and lay down the law on this fucking team. I’m going to be thirty thousand feet in the air on my way to Florida and I’m going to be giving them the bare minimum oneverything.
I know it won’t be easy. I know it might take months, but now I know Dad’s on my side.
The embarrassment of needing my father hasn’t hit yet, and I hope it never does because it’s fucking liberating to feel this strong again, this safe.
I straighten my spine and set my shoulders before I walk into the locker room, preparing myself because I know it’s not going to be easy to remain like this.
Sure enough, Bojarski is the first to snap his eyes up at me, and a sneer immediately curls his lips.
“You fucking snitch,” he shouts, whiny and petulant.
“I am,” I tell him, keeping my tone measured.
I only spare him a glance before moving on to my locker but I feel him stand and stalk closer to me. It might seem stupid and like asking for trouble, but I’m not going to delay this any longer, I can’t.
I face him head on because I’m not going to spend however long I have left in this team being intimidated and bullied. I’ve got four inches on him, and I use them to make him feel as little as a cockroach as I step right up to him and stare him down.
“You should keep that in mind next time you want to run your mouth at me. I’ll punch you again, but that will be the least of your worries. Next time, I’m going to sue the shit out of you so bythe time my lawyers are done with you, you won’t even be able to afford a McDonald’s breakfast.
“I’m going to be watching you, Bojarski. Everything and anything you do. Any puck bunny you pick up, any time you step out of line I’m going to remember it, and I’m going to make sure your life is dust by the time I’m done with you.”
I step back, take a lazy look around the room and see everyone’s watching, everyone’s listening. Their faces are like a rainbow of different emotions, but I don’t stop to dissect them.
None of these men ever tried to be my friend, ever tried to defend me, to stand up for what’s right.
I won’t ever stand up for them.
I focus on Bojarski’s furious eyes for the last time and let that strength show, and I smirk at him with the knowledge that he’ll regret ever making an enemy out of me.
“And either way, good luck not letting any goals in without me helping you.”
I can tell he wants to react. I know he wants to punch me, goad me, try to hurt me with words the way he always has, but he’s a coward, and he’s not stupid enough to think I’m bluffing.
Thanks to my little announcement, practice is boring as hell.
No one passes to me, no one speaks to me—not even coach Rocco, the biggest coward of them all—and I ignore them right back, but when everyone leaves I stay on the ice.
To play, to fall in love with the game again, to stay sharp and in shape.
And to make sure I don’t have to spend an extra second with any of them.
December 17th
Sitting on the bench, I don’t even bother reaching for the water bottle because I’m not winded at all after fifty seconds on the ice. For some reason, Rocco has kept me on the same line, and as center.
I’ve won all the face-offs against the Tampa star center, but I don’t do much else.
Unless the puck literally lands on my stick, I barely even move.
When it does, I take it up the ice and do my best to score, which is the only reason why we have two goals against Tampa’s five.
Yeah, Bojarski is a shitty goalie and none of the D-men are helping, least of all Girard and Ewing, the two on my line.
Peters, my supposed left wing and the miserably mediocre captain of the Empire, barely does anything too. He’s jaded at thirty-four, and I don’t blame him for that, but I do blame him for being a shitty leader and for having turned a blind eye to how everyone has treated me since the moment I became part of the team.
