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Chapter Twenty-Two
HARVEY
I’monice,butmy mind is not in the game. It’s just a charity game anyway.
I pass the puck to the right winger, and all I can think about is Elsa and her indecisiveness and it’s killing me. It’s been almost a week and she still hasn’t told me her answer.
I enter the goal crease of the adversary and am immediately tackled by the spryest of their defensemen, banging my ribs sideways on the plexiglass and making me fall flat on my face over the ice.
“Penalty! Penalty!” I shout, pointing fingers at the defenseman.
“Shut up and play, Baker!” the referee yells in response, ordering me back into the rink.
I’m now fueled by rage, which I eagerly give into as a distraction. I feel rage towards the defenseman and this referee.
The puck comes back, and I hear myself growl with anticipation. This is it, the tiebreaker, one push and I send it right in between the legs of the goalie.
And boom. There it goes. But contrary to what I was expecting, the goalie defends it, we tie, and the game is over.
I toss my stick very far away, take off my gloves, and go straight to the referee.
“Why didn’t you give us that penalty, huh?” I say, pure rage flowing from my lips. “We couldawon! Are you bought by the other team, huh?”
By now I am so close to the poor man that we could just as well do the tango, but my teammates come to break us apart quite quickly.
“Harvey!” Tchekov says, “What’s your problem? This is a charity game!”
Only then does my anger subside, but I still keep on pointing my finger at the referee’s face, still indignant about what he did.
“You’re one dirty asshole, Williams,” I call out to the referee. I’m still catching my breath, but I manage to make it sound like I’m half joking.
“And you’re one short-tempered ass-wipe, Baker,” the referee skates by me, pats me on the shoulder, and moves on.
I head to the locker room with the rest of the guys, handing out autographs and stopping for selfie requests on the way there, For the fans’ sake, I can chill out and handle it. There’s no need for them to see a fully grown piss-baby throw a tantrum because of a tie and because he can’t get ahold of his emotions.
With the skate guards on my feet, I go ahead and join the others. I remove my pads and my jersey, and sit down for a little while, my head in between my knees.
“Are you okay, Harvey?” Phillips, our goalie, asks, a hand on my shoulder.
“Huh…” I say, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the many pairs of feet encircling me. “What was I thinking?”
“Yeah, your head was really in the game,” Pinchon, our left defenseman, says.
“No, I was way too far off the game, I think,” I say and start removing my skates.
Everybody seems pleased with what they achieved and goes about their business. Fortunately, that leaves me be for a while, a quiet loner amid many merry voices.
I open my locker to get my clothes for a shower and see that my phone is ringing. It’s Parker — of course, he’s the one doing the local sportscast and must want an interview, so I answer as my mood allows me.
“Not in the mood for talking, my friend. Can we just skip this one?”
“Harvey, this is serious,” and just by the tone of his voice, I can tell he means it. “Can you get to the press’ skybox now?”
“Sure, man, but what happened?” I ask, worried — which is ironic considering I’ve already been feeling vulnerable all day.
“I prefer to speak in person,” he says. “Now, please.”
“Okay, give me a few minutes,” I say. “I’ll hang up now and head over.”
