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“You’re supposed to score, did anyone tell you that?” I said, deliberately bumping into him as we waited for play to resume. “You remember what it feels like to score?”
Masterson was on a major skid, and my shot had been a direct hit. He scowled at me and I grinned, determined to make him throw the first punch.
“That big net down there is where you’re supposed to put the puck,” I said. “You use that stick in your hand.”
“Eat shit, Boone,” he muttered. “You’re the fucking weak link in your line, and everyone knows it.”
His shot landed like a physical blow. It was true—Wes and Nash were both better players than me. But this wasn’t the right day to point it out, and Masterson sure as shit wasn’t the one to be doing it.
“You’re a has-been, man,” I said, skating over slowly to get in his face. “Time to take your arthritic knees to the nursing home and watch hockey on TV while you eat your pudding.”
“You want to fucking go?” he asked, his face reddening.
“Yeah, man, show me how the old folks throw down. Beat me with your fucking cane. You’re an embarrassment to this game, still playing at your age.”
Masterson tossed his gloves off and drove a punch into my stomach. I felt a brief pang of guilt as I threw my own gloves down. Joey’s first hockey game and his uncle gets into a fight.
Then again…he’d probably think it was cool. And this was part of the game. When I was in a shit mood, it was my favorite part.
Masterson shoved me into the boards and hit me again. I deserved it. But he did, too. Both of us had been dicks and we’d both end up with penalties. I needed to get as many hits in as I could. My fists flew and I felt a trickle of blood fall from my nose. Then the refs and our teammates descended on us, the ref trying in vain to pull us apart.
It took Lars, the strongest guy on our team, to get me off of Masterson.
“Fuck you, Boone!” he yelled, pointing at me as two of his teammates held him back by the chest. “You’re a fucking asshole.”
“Means a lot, coming from you!” I yelled. “Knit me some booties when you get to the nursing home!”
“Boone, enough,” Lars said. “Go cool down in the box.”
Two minutes wasn’t nearly enough, though. I was more fired up than ever when I skated back onto the ice after my penalty, but lines were changing and I had to go to the bench.
Wes glanced over at me and said, “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Keep it together. We need this one.”
“Yeah, I will.”
Somehow, I managed to keep my focus on hockey for the rest of the game, which we won 3–2 in overtime. Even scoring the winning goal didn’t make me feel much better.
Coach and I continued avoiding each other after the game. I checked my phone before hitting the shower and was disappointed to not find a text from Jolie.
Had she watched the game? She usually did. And when she did, I had a congratulations text waiting.
I stared at the screen for a few seconds, wanting to text her. What would it accomplish, though? I’d texted her at least a dozen times since she’d made me leave the restaurant the other day.
The adages about redheads appeared to be true. Jolie was the only redhead I’d ever been with, and now I knew that when she was pissed off, it was a watch-out-world situation.
“Don’t do it,” Nash said from nearby. “She’ll text you eventually. Give her some space.”
Space. What the hell did that even mean? When two people were right for each other—and Jolie and I were—they didn’t need space. They needed to be face to face, talking out their problems or yelling them out if needed.
Walking away was never the answer. Not when you were all in. I’d walked away from women before because I wanted to avoid making the end any harder than it had to be.
This wasn’t the end for me and Jolie, though. It couldn’t be. We could date long distance if we had to. I wasn’t ready to give up on us, and I didn’t think she was, either.
Nash had the worst track record with women before he started dating Sariah. So whatever he said, the opposite was probably the thing to do. Not that I had a choice. I couldn’t wait for Jolie to cool down. There was nothing cool about our relationship, and I liked it that way.
I pushed her contact on my phone and typed out a message.
Boone: We need to talk. You can yell and throw things if you want, but we’re talking.
The three little dots that indicated she was writing back popped up on the screen, and my heart raced hopefully.
