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Roger Roussell, center on my line and team captain, got in place for the face-off. Second line center Alexi Ovechkin waited opposite Roger, grinning wickedly as he chewed on his mouth guard. Both Alexi and Roger are hypercompetitive to a fault. The match up would be interesting. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and my attention strayed from the center line to further down the ice. Unfortunately, I found a pair of familiar dark, hooded eyes, shooting an equally familiar glare my way. Calloway sneered and returned his focus to the face-off. Regrettably, I couldn't say the same. The puck dropped and Rouzy snagged it. He spun and flipped it to me. I wasn’t ready. The disc bounced off my thigh and rolled across the ice. One of the second line defensemen scooped it up and passed it to his forward.
“What in the name of god's hairy nut sack was that shit, St. Clair?” Coach V. roared.
I forced my head back in the game, eyes on the puck, and skated backward as I answered. “Sorry, Coach. Won't happen again.” Crisse, I had to get a grip, and fast. After my spectacularly awful sprints and drills, it wouldn't take much for Coach to yank me off the first line.
I managed to keep it together for almost the entire scrimmage and even scored a goal off Hazey, not an easy feat considering the guy is one of the best tendies in the league. As a general rule, offensive and defensive lines don't switch out at the same time. Because they don’t skate as hard and fast, defense stays on the ice a little longer before needing a break. After several shifts and line changes, Coach wanted to mix things up. Calloway ended up defending me and I figured Coach must be damn determined to see me carted off the ice in a straitjacket.
Not more than ten seconds after the whistle, the scrimmage turned into un tas de marde, as we say in Québec—pile of shit if you’re American. Rouzy did a nice little deke and was able to pass the puck to me. Waiting in the crease, I caught it on my tape and whirled around, ready to score. Out of nowhere, Calloway blindsided me. His behemoth body slammed into my left side and I went down. I hit the ice so hard my helmet made a loud crack as it bounced off the ice… with my head still inside it.
The world went black for a second or two as I lay on my back and stared at the rafters. Lights popped in my field of vision and I half expected to see little fucking tweety birds circling my head. Sounds faded in and out, but I caught a few words said by my teammates.
“Jesus Christ, St. Clair. You okay?”
“He take hit. Get, how you say, bell rung hard, da?”
“What the fuck, Calloway?”
“Sebby, how many fingers am I holding up?”
The last question came from Evvy. Slowly regaining semi-consciousness, I swatted his hand out of my face and snarled, “Vas te faire chier!” Ev looked confused. I parroted his expression back at him.
“You're speaking in French, St. Clair,” Coach said from behind me.
I staggered to my feet and frowned. The world spun in lazy loop-de-loops. “I told Evvy to piss off… I think.” I scrunched my forehead and glanced around as I wobbled on my skates.
After a minute, my bearings returned. Able to focus more than a few feet in front of me, I scanned the faces on the ice. When I found the one I wanted, I launched at him, gracelessly knocking down several players in the process. Calloway had his fists raised, ready for me. But Calloway didn’t expect me to keep going. His eyes went wide when he realized I wasn’t going to stop. I barreled into him, so I could knock him on his ass like he did to me. Or, that was my intention. It didn't quite work out as I planned. Oh, Sasquatch fell all right, but the big bastard grabbed hold of my sweater and held tight, taking me down with him. Together, we crashed to the ice and without missing a beat started swinging. We rolled to our feet, trading jabs and cross hooks until the others got involved. It took three guys to hold me still, four for Sasquatch, the one-upper.
“You two shit stains, in my office. Now!”
Despite Coach’s shout, Calloway and I continued to exchange murderous glares. Coach V. shoved me toward the tunnel and the defensive coach did the same to Calloway, who actually freaking growled when touched. Come on! How did no one see it? The guy had to be at least half, maybe three-quarters Sasquatch. Nothing else made sense.
Coach had enough sense to send a couple guys to accompany us so we didn't kill each other along the way. I was sure Frank Vernon wanted that particular pleasure all to himself.
I didn't trust Calloway to turn my back on him, so I faced the middle of the changing room as I undressed. I chucked my sweaty shit on the floor and yanked on a shirt and jogging pants. Onlookers waited, arms crossed, ready to intervene.
Calloway did the same. He discarded his pads, tore the tape off his ankles, and still managed to throw enough shade to block the sun for a week. I was almost done shoving my feet into a pair of sneakers, when Coach stormed past us, a thick cloud of fury following close behind. I knew from experience he wouldn't wait long. If you kept Coach V. waiting, it was at the very real risk of life and limb. Not me. Foregoing the rest of my clothes in favor of speed, I went into Coach’s office and took a seat. Thirty seconds later, spine stiff as a board and a jaw you could use to cut glass, Sasquatch entered and lowered his behemoth body into the chair next to mine.
Coach slammed the door shut with a loud bang. It latched shut I wished he let us grab a shower first. Two men, fresh off the ice, who reeked of sweat and funky hockey equipment, crammed into a tiny room, made it damn near impossible to breathe without burning my nose hairs off.
“What in fresh hell is wrong with the two of you?” Uh oh. It was bad. It had been a while since I’d seen Coach so upset, and I didn’t miss it one bit. His face flushed so red it looked puce. Or was it cerise? I always got those colors mixed up. “You with us, St. Clair? Or you wanna continue to fucking daydream?” Coach shouted in my face. I flinched and shook my head.
“No. I'm with you. Um, sir.” The urge to gut punch Calloway when he made a rude noise was strong. But I wasn’t stupid enough to start something with a furious Frank Vernon standing within arm’s reach. “Good.” He crossed his arms and stared, eyes flicking back and forth between us.
The room tilted a little and I blinked until it stopped. I lifted a hand to the side of my head and felt for a lump. Ow. I must have hit the ice really hard considering I had been wearing my helmet at the time.
Coach continued to grimace, jowls hanging, not uttering a word. Bastard was trying to intimidate us. I hated that it worked. Even more, I hated that it only worked on me, not Calloway, who sat next to me, unflinching, cool as a fucking cucumber. Coach opened his mouth to read us our last rites. The shrill ring of the phone on his desk cut him short. The three of us stared at it. I was pretty sure I’d never heard that phone make a single sound. With the advent of cellphones, landlines had gone the way of the dinosaurs.
“Son of a bitch,” Coach muttered. He glared at the clunky black desktop phone as he fished around in one of his jacket pockets. Coach yanked his cell free and promptly frowned. “Accidentally turned the damn thing to silent,” he mumbled, then twisted his upper body to snatch the trilling receiver off its cradle and barked, “What?”
Whatever the person on the other end said made the color drain from Coach’s face. His knuckles blanched as he gripped the phone. When Coach’s worried gaze flicked to Calloway, my stomach sank.
“I see… Yeah,” Coach continued. “Uh huh… Got it… Right.”
Goosebumps pricked the back of my neck and icy tendrils of dread trickled down into my chest to slither around my heart. The look in Frank Vernon's eyes wasn’t one was used to seeing from the gruff man. Sympathy.
Sasquatch, not being nearly as stupid as he looked, shot to his feet as Coach hung up the phone. My pulse thundered and I lick
ed my lips. My gaze bounced back and forth between Coach and Calloway and loud alarms went off in my head.
