After rewinding the play a dozen times, I think it’s safe to say with some certainty that Girard’s shove against Alexei (yes, his own teammate) that resulted in Jankowski plowing into Gibson, the Montreal goalie, was not in fact an accident, or the result of a loss of balance.
Jankowski paid for the collision the way all players do when the goalie is put in danger—swiftly and viciously—andno onefrom the LA bench stepped in.
After less than fifteen seconds, the fight—that was never really a fight—ended. Confusion was visible on Montreal’s player’s faces when Jankowski was left to defend himself. I’d even go as far as to suggest they might’ve felt bad for him.
A lot can be said about high expectations, about nepo babies, abouttalentedyoung men being forced to carry the weight of a legendary name on their backs, but I think in this instance, it’s all rather simple:
The Empire didn’t have Jankowski’s back, and from his father’s actions before the puck even dropped, I assume this isn’t an isolated incident even if it’s the first one the general public has witnessed.
We’re already three months into the season, and with the limited information we have now, it’s hard not to encourage the Jankwoskis to saygood riddance.
So maybe I’ll refrain?
For now.
14
Lex
“I need to get my stuff from the locker room,” I mutter, though my voice comes out whiny since I’m still holding gauze up to my nose. It hurts like a bitch, but it’s nothing compared to what that scene I walked in on did to me.
Dad . . . breaking pictures of his achievements.
I didn’t want that. I never wanted it to come to this.
The fight on the ice is still mostly a blur to me, but there’s no way I can deny that I felt a push toward Montreal’s goalie.
I don’t know who pushed me, but I have a pretty good idea.
Does it matter?
It took an embarrassing amount of time for the doc to get to me, and I can’t figure out if that’s because there was just no one calling for him or because he also just doesn’t give two shits about me.
Now, though . . .
“Get everything,” Dad says, his voice still stuck in a growl.
I don’t know how I can apologize to him, how I can possibly find the words to tell him I’m sorry that he now hates his former team.
With a bitch of a headache already half formed, and every thought passing through in a blur without giving me time to process anything fully, all I can do is turn around and go to the locker room.
“I’ll help,” I hear Eli say from behind me, and embarrassment fills me again. He saw firsthand just how much I’ve failed, how far my team is willing to go to punish me for... for whatever they think they need to punish me for.
I push the doors open and go right to my cubbie, start dumping stuff in my duffle, and finish getting rid of my gear—half of it’s still in the exam room and I’m sure as shit not packing that up.
“Are there any cameras in here?” Eli’s voice sounds... funny. I can’t pinpoint exactly why, but when I turn, I see him looking around with narrowed eyes.
“Uhm... no. There aren’t any?” I confirm but it comes out like a question.
“Perfect,” he says with a sudden brightness that has a spark of dread going up my spine. It gets worse when he marches right up to Girard’s cubbie and starts inspecting it.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a whisper, even though I know no one’s coming since the period wasn’t even halfway done when I went down, and though I don’t know exactly how much time haspassed, we still probably have at least ten minutes before anyone comes in here.
“Looking for his phone,” Eli says matter-of-factly.
“It’s on the top shelf, just—” Why did I tell him that? Shit.
He jumps on the bench and gives a tiny shout of triumph when he finds it, then he pulls out a cable from his pocket and connects it to his own phone, taps, taps, taps on it, and connects it to Ewing’s phone too.
