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Both teams battle for the puck, and Bratt checks Wynward into the boards, then as the referee comes to break it up, Bratt skates away and trips another teammate with his stick. Their crowd erupts, cheering. Hockey fans love this stuff. This game is eight hours away, so we have a few fans in attendance. Parents, siblings, a few girlfriends, and a few puck bunnies, even though they know we’re not in a hotel. Tonight, we take a long bus ride home.
The game continues, and the score is tied zero to zero. Coach sends my line in, and the first line comes out. Wynward looks at me. “Take care of him.”
He doesn’t need to explain—it’s time to put Bratt in his place. I bide my time, seeking an opening to slam him into the boards and get in a cheap shot or two.
Dawes passes the puck diagonally, and I skillfully maneuver across the ice. I’ve been doing this since I was a tot; it’s where I’m at peace. Eyeing the net with determination, I release a powerful wrist shot, and it swiftly sails past the goalie’s outstretched glove.
Celebrating, my teammates skate around me, patting my helmet. I glance over at our bench and Coach waves me over. “Good goal. Don’t let up.” He looks over his shoulder at Wynward, one of the top three centers in our conference. “You have two minutes, then first line is back up.”
It’s the third period and this time, we lose the face off. Our defense holds, and the goalie keeps the puck from entering the net twice. Bratt’s frustrated and playing sloppy, so now’s my chance.
He’s furiously trying to catch up to the puck and as he gets past the red line, I hit him with the force of a truck. He takes off his helmet and says, “What the fuck, juvie criminal?”
His words knock the wind out of me, but it doesn’t stop my fist from connecting with his nose. He laughs as he swings back and hits my jaw. All hell breaks loose, and both benches clear. Fists are flying, and blood spatters over the ice.
I’m sent to the penalty box. The game ends in a shutout. We win one to zero.
We shower quickly, and Coach says, “We’ll do our post-game talk on the bus. But men, you fought for each other, and that’s how we become a team. When someone knocks one of us, they knock us all. I’m proud of you.”
He doesn’t mention me by name and when we get on the bus, I take a seat on the inside, next to the window, wanting to shut my eyes.
Back-to-back road games mean an excessive amount of time to think—about what Bratt said.
Juvie? Criminal.
Juvenile records are supposed to be sealed.
Men who succeed despite their circumstances.
So many incomplete thoughts race through my mind.
“Can I sit?” Dawes asks.
“Not if you’re going to talk.”
“We won, and the whole team knows you have their backs. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
I snap, “I want everyone to leave me the fuck alone.”
It doesn’t matter what I do on the ice or how many times I go to bat for my teammates. The past will never be far from my mind. Cynical laughter reverberates through my head, laughing at me for thinking I will ever be free from who I am. What I did.
Then there's Brooke, always seen in her oversized sweaters with her hair neatly pulled back from her face. Once she discovers the extent of the trouble I'm facing, she'll likely want nothing to do with me.
But it doesn’t delete the taste of her on my tongue or keep me from wanting to be deep inside her. Brooke prefers studying over partying and carries sticky notes to annotate her romance books. But I’m the bad boy you use for revenge sex or just for some excitement, not the kind of guy someone like Brooke would want to date.
As I watch more and more Dollar General stores pass outside the bus window, my mind bounces between my past and seeing Brooke tomorrow. Studying has never been my forte, but Brooke makes it worthwhile. How will I explain the bruises on my face without telling her I’m on the hockey team and got into a fight?
She doesn’t seem like the type attracted to athletes but then again, she was at the football celebration. Regardless, I don’t want her to see me with a split lip and bruises.
Brooke makes me feel normal, and I need that right now. I don’t want to feel like a monster. I want to be a college guy who enjoys talking to a girl even if I know it won’t go farther than it already has.
A girl like Brooke will never want me for who I am, so I hit send.
Me:Hey, can’t make our study date.
She takes a whole hour to reply. What kind of girl doesn't keep her phone with her at all times? Clearly, someone whose priorities aren’t on dating.
Brooke:I was looking forward to reading the next chapter and getting your insights. I find it interesting to see if men and women read the same passage but interpret the meaning in different ways.
