Page 74

Bryce: Whatever it is, we have your back.

Corbin: Speak for yourself. He hasn’t talked to Becca in days.

Reed: What? Why would you do that to her?

Flynn: Now this really doesn’t pass the smell test.

Corbin: Answer, asshole.

I listen to the last message Becca left me. Her voice trembles as she sniffs. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I believed you when you said you loved me. But obviously you don’t. But we can make it without you.”

Imagining her believing that I don’t love her makes my gut wrench in pain. But I can’t bring her into this mess. Once it’s over, she’ll understand. She’s the most compassionate, caring woman I’ve ever known. So, I send her a simple text.

Me: I do love you, just a lot of things are going on. I have pregame warmups, so we’ll talk soon.

I know I’m being a total ass by not calling her, and it hurts me more than anyone could ever know.

Right before I put my phone away, it dings with a notification. Hoping it will be Becca, I give it a glance.

The Penalty Player Skating on Thin Ice:

Is the Dallas Rattlers captain, John Basilio Betting Against His Own Team?

My usual steady hands tremble as I read the headline staring back at me in big, bold letters. At least part of what I told the commissioner leaked. The question is: was it leaked on purpose?Designed to draw my dad out of the shadows. Mr. Cross knows my dad well. They played during the same era and like Mr. Cross, my dad is a hockey legend. But Mr. Cross knows my dad has a temper. Maybe he’s trying to poke the bear in hopes my dad implicates himself.

My stomach churns like Becca’s grandmother making homemade ice cream. I smile at the memory of Corbin and Becca’s Mamaw bringing homemade ice cream to college when coming to see Corbin play. But this moment isn’t sweet; it’s sour—the glances of disdain from my Rattlers teammates after seeing the headline. It’s eerily quiet on the way out of the locker room. No fist bumps or building ourselves up with adrenaline, and it’s all because of what they think I’ve done.

But the moment my blades carve up the ice, my troubles melt away. It’s like second nature to skate fast on thin steel, sharper than a steak knife. Out here, the questions banging around in my head quiets. No more headlines. No more worrying about the endless questions that will no doubt plague me in the after-game media interview.

My teammates and even my coach glare but with every glide backward to defend, I’m able to keep my footing. Surrounded by the crisp air inside the arena, and the chants from the home crowd, I stay grounded.

At the first intermission, things get heated in the locker room with guys accusing me of betting against us. I stay quiet. I’ll show them on the ice. Eventually, they’ll find out that I’m not the bad guy here.

During the second period, one of the Vipers players intentionally trips Hawley then pokes him in the back with his stick to keep him from getting up quick. Immediately, I’m there, gloves off, to go to the wall for my teammate. Fists fly and as the ref tries to break it up, he gets an elbow to the neck. My elbow.

We jaw back and forth, and he sends me to the penalty box. Frustrated that they didn’t call the foul, I think back to the last ref who missed the same call last week, then again during thefirst week of the season against Seattle. It’s the same guy. I nibble on that little nugget and make a mental note to tell Mr. Cross. Could this guy be part of the network they’re trying to bring down?

Since I’m not playing, I take a glimpse into the stands. Black and red Rattlers jerseys dot the arena like a Monet painting. None of them are here for me except a few puck bunnies who hang around. Every game, I say have a good night, ladies, and go on my merry way, knowing they’ll hookup with someone on the team or staff.

A knot forms deep in my abdomen as I recall telling Becca that we wouldn’t have worked out in college, that now is our time. But l need to make sure that my father falls, not for what he did to me but the damage he’ll have done to the game and the public trust. The commissioner made it clear that it’s more than my dad. He believes there is a criminal element involved. A sharp, razor-edged grin cuts across my face as I’m unable to deny the satisfaction I’ll receive when my dad falls from grace.

Coach plays me for three minutes during the third period, seemingly as a punishment. The game ends. We lose. I slam my helmet across the room, and the noise echoes against the lockers gaining everyone’s attention.

And soon the arguing starts.

“You lied. This is why you went to the commissioner’s office.”

“You’re fucking scum.”

“How could you bet against your own team?”

I wait, gather my thoughts, and let them keep hitting me where it hurts until I finally say, “I.” I point to the Rattlers logo on my chest, “I did not bet against us. Ever.”

“That’s not what the article says.”

“Well, don’t believe everything you read. It’s just some reporter trying to make a name for themselves.”

Palici laughs in my face. “There are several articles claiming the same thing.”