Page 110 of Put a Rink on It

Me and my big mouth for getting us into this situation.

Yeah, a fight’s exactly what I need tonight.

When my time in the box ends, I skate to the bench, taking my seat as penance, focusing on the action in front of me.

No thanks to my shitty play, but we’re up three-one. It’s a testament to the rest of the team for playing their best when I’m losing it inside. As long as they keep it up, we should be good. I’m not using it as an excuse to keep on this path, but I’m grateful they’ve got my back.

The least I can do is attempt to have theirs.

To get out of my own way.

To banish my personal life from my head for the next sixty minutes.

“Champion, you’re up.”

I’m not expecting the statement, but when I jump the boards, I notice Mignone holding his rib cage. Man, my concentration is shot if I thought I knew what was happening in the game. I’m clearly dead wrong.

“I got you,” I call out, pointing my stick at Mignone. It may not be the entire truth, but I’ll use it as a start.

I set up for the face-off, not allowing my focus to drift from what’s happening on the ice. It doesn’t have to be forever, but my team deserves my best until the final buzzer.

So that’s what I’m going to give it.

The rest can wait.

And when Mousa, the Seattle winger, comes at me, he’s surprised to see me drop my gloves, but he follows suit with his as my hands reach for his jersey.

I grab the front of his jersey with my left hand and make a fist with my right, aiming for his head. He anticipates my move, his knees bending, grabbing my left wrist, and ducking his head against my chest, sending my arm over his head. Still holding onto each other’s jerseys, we rotate on our feet, spinning so he’s closer to the boards now. I shake his hand off my wrist, freeing my arm to get in another punch, again not landing where I want. But I’m determined. I won’t let him get the better of me as I take out my aggression and personal frustration on him.

For about thirty seconds, we trade barbs, each of our helmets coming off in the process. Right jabs, left hooks, grabbing each other’s jerseys. It’s not until I finally get him to the ice that the linesmen step in to separate us, sending us off to our respective boxes.

I take my punishment and five-minute penalty with more grace. As much as I’ll miss more time from the game, my head seems less attached to holding onto the events of last night. I slide my jaw from side to side, making sure nothing’s broken. I crank my left arm over my head, easing the soreness in the shoulder. I need it for another period.

Kingston is back. “Better?” he asks, his inquisitive tone giving away his feelings.

“You know what? Yes.”

He taps my sweaty head. “Good. Don’t make it a habit. You’re allowed a bad game. Don’t let it become your reputation.”

“Hearing you loud and clear."

It’s not the best way to solve my problems, but it was a great distraction.

We claim victory with a four-to-one win.

After the fight, my mood and concentration improved, but now that it’s over and there’s nothing left to distract me, I’m back to being prickly.

“Champion,” Schurbatski grumbles, flinging himself onto the bench. He’s freshly showered and in jeans and a sweater. “You’re coming with me.”

“Excuse me?” Despite the years we played for different franchises, being back on his team rekindled our college friendship. “Where are we going?”

“Out.”

“Out where?” I press, wondering what he’s thinking and why he’s forcing me to come along.

“Need help picking out a gift for my mom.”

I cross my arms over my chest, my annoyance from earlier transferring to this behemoth assuming I’m going with him. “And that equates to being my problem how?”