Page 24

24

JP

Tonight, our first game after the Christmas break, we’re playing in Nashville.

Yep, that means me and Manny Martinez on the ice together again. He pissed me off in that preseason game we played against the Predators, but that was months ago. Hopefully he’s over Taylor now. I just want to play hockey.

I’ve been doing so well. When we played Boston, that shit-disturber LeHane was on my ass all night. He’s a fucking pest, and his whole role on the team is to annoy the opposing team and try to draw penalties. I’ve gotten sucked into it in the past, but not this year.

The guys who are like that know me. They know my temper, they know they can get to me with chirps and dirty hits behind the play, trying to get under my skin. I was doing pretty well at ignoring LeHane but when he stood in front of Mac, our goalie, hassling him, my anger started growing. I didn’t let it take over, though: I channeled it for good and laid a crushing hit on him on our next shift together. Totally clean, but he had to pick himself up off the ice, shaking his head. That sent a message.

Martinez is not that kind of player, so there shouldn’t be problems tonight. I just want to play good hockey. The Preds are in a different division, but we need every two points we can get. Right now, we’re on track for a playoff spot and we need to stay there. I’ve been scoring goals; in fact our entire line has been hot lately, getting more minutes, getting recognition from Uncle Mark in the dressing room and when he talks to the media. I don’t want to let down the team by taking dumb penalties or letting someone mess with my game.

I tape my stick before the game, part of my routine. You want to know something weird? Every Wynn family hockey player tapes his stick the same way. We have different preferences when it comes to the actual stick—length, lie, weight, curve, flex—but taping is something I learned from my dad, who learned it from Grandpa. This is weird, because usually hockey players have pretty individual preferences when it comes to taping sticks, but it’s kind of a family superstition or something that we all tape our sticks the way Grandpa did—white tape on the knob and shaft, the first piece twisted into a rope that’s wound around the handle exactly five revolutions, creating grips. White tape over that starting from the top. Then black tape on the blade, leaving the tip bare. Heh. I remember the discussion that night at Taylor’s new apartment when she moved in.

The precision and care needed to get it perfect helps me get in the zone. I’ve got earbuds in and I’m listening to “All Night” by Walk the Moon, part of a motivational playlist I put together that I’ve been listening to. The steady beat has my head moving. I feel great.

I’ve had this feeling for a while now. Like everything is going right. Things have been relatively peaceful with my family. The team’s been playing well and I’ve been contributing. And . . . Taylor.

I have to say, I like it when she’s there when I get home. I like it when she’s in my bed all night. I really like it when we have days off together and we can have morning sex and coffee in bed, and take Byron for long walks on the beach, and cook dinner together or hang out with my friends or with Théo and Lacey. I like . . . her.

I like her a lot.

I catch Abs looking at me and realize I’m smiling like an idiot. He knows better than to say anything to me, though, because interrupting a player’s routine is a total dick move. We like to trash-talk and play pranks and joke around, but a guy’s game-day routine is sacrosanct.

I go through my own warm-up that I learned last summer from Bernard. It hits every body part, starting with ankle hops and marching, ending with side shuffles and high-knee running.

In the dressing room, the mood is light, music pumping out “Wow” by Post Malone. I have a routine for how I get dressed too, like most players. I always put my jersey on last.

Uncle Mark comes in for a few last-minute reminders. “Their goalie’s playing well,” he says. “We gotta get pucks on him. Get traffic in front of him.” He tells us who’s starting and we all clap.

I hit the ice at a run and it feels great, the ice smooth, my blades sharp. I love that feeling. I take a spin, then head to the bench since I’m not starting and pull off my helmet for the national anthem.

The game is intense. We get off to a flying start, moving our legs, keeping our game north-south. Martinez lays a few hits on me, most of which I manage to absorb or evade. I’m good at that. The first couple weren’t an issue—I had the puck along the boards, so of course he was going to hit me. Then he comes after me after I pass the puck to Dutch, driving me into the boards from behind, snapping my neck back. I didn’t even know it was him at first. It was dirty and right on the numbers and he should be going off, but no whistle sounds, and I can’t fucking believe it as I haul myself up off the ice to catch up to the play. Jesus Christ.

Now I’m pissed.

Luckily I’m not hurt, but I’m pissed.

On the bench I vent to Frenchy (Louis Ouellet). “What the fuck was that? I can’t believe that didn’t get called.”

“I know.” Frenchy shakes his head. “Asshole.”

Benny, our head trainer, claps a hand on my shoulder behind me. “You okay, Japester?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my head around. My neck might be sore later, but I’m okay.

Both goalies are going to be stars of this game, because both teams are fighting hard. They’re standing on their goddamn heads, though, blocking shot after shot, and it’s the third period before we finally manage to put one past their netminder.

We celly like we’d just won the Cup, jumping on each other and pounding one another’s backs. Thank fuck.

We’re up by one with about six minutes left in the game. One goal’s not good enough. Still lots of time for them to tie it up. We’re changing on the fly, and I leap over the boards and chase the puck deep in the Nashville end where Copper dumped it before heading off. Their defense is on it, though, and I’m slammed into the boards. By Martinez. Again.

Dutch takes the puck and passes it to Bergie.

“Fuck!” I yell at Martinez. “Hit me like that again and I’ll drop you, motherfucker.”

Bergie passes cross ice to Johnny, then to me. I don’t have a lane, so I pass it back to Bergie on the blue line. He takes a one-timer. The goalie makes the save and smothers the puck. The whistle blows.

Martinez skates up to me and circles me. “Frustrated, man? Not getting enough of that sweet pussy?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I growl, turning to face him. I glide closer to him, my blood heating.

“Taylor. Just remember . . . I was there first.” He smirks. “She likes to share that sweet pussy. So tight and?—”

He doesn’t get out the rest of what he was saying because I’ve dropped my gloves and punched him. He drops to the ice immediately, blood running down his face. I’m on him, but he’s not even fighting back, and that pisses me off even more. I’ve been fucking played.

The linesmen are there right away, pulling me off. A bunch of Preds arrive and surround us menacingly, quickly followed by my teammates. My chest is heaving, adrenaline slamming through my veins. “You’re the fucking pussy,” I spit out at Martinez, then hate myself for using that sexist slur. “You fucking douchebag prick!” I can’t even think of insults bad enough for him. For what he just said.

“Enough,” the linesman holding me back says. “You’re out of the game.”

“What the fuck?” I glare at him. “He said—” I stop dead. There’s no way in hell I want to repeat what he just said with cameras on us and possibly microphones picking it up.

I am so fucked.

“Last five minutes of regulation time,” the ref barks. “You’re out.” He drags me across the ice.

Meanwhile, Martinez is getting attention for the blood dripping down his face. He didn’t even drop his gloves! Rage billows inside me, hot pressure that makes me yank myself out of the linesman’s grip and try to go at Martinez again. This time my own teammates rush at me to grab me and hold me back.

“Jesus, man, calm the fuck down,” Dutch says in my ear. “What the hell?”

I take in a shuddering breath. Yeah, I’ve lost it. I’ve totally lost it, and no amount of compartmentalizing or deep breathing or thinking calm thoughts is going to help me right now. I skate over to the gate, jump off the ice, and stalk down the tunnel to the visitors’ dressing room.

“How’s your hand?” Benny asks with unruffled composure.

I shake it out, only realizing now that the knuckles are grazed and throbbing.

“I’ll get you an ice pack.”

I drop to the bench in front of my cubby, toss aside my helmet, and let my head fall forward.

Then I hear it. A roar from the fans, so loud it almost drowns out the goal horn. Fucking Nashville scored.

I close my eyes, my heart still trying to pound its way up into my throat.

Benny hands me the ice pack and I hold it on my knuckles. “Thanks,” I mutter. “They just tied it up, didn’t they?”

“Yeah.”

Shit, shit, shit.

I’m stuck here listening and fuming as the game goes into overtime. And we lose.

The mood in the room is grim afterward. The guys are pissed and Uncle Mark is yelling at me. “What the fuck were you thinking? We were up by one goal! There was only four minutes left in the game, goddammit!”

I know. I know.

The air in the room is heavy. I can see everyone trading glances.

“Oh, for Chrissake.” Uncle Mark rubs his face. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

I nod miserably. I know I screwed up, but come on! I’m supposed to let him get away with that? “He was on me all night,” I say. “You guys saw it. He was trying to get a rise out of me.”

“It worked,” Frenchy says dourly.

I take a deep breath. Can’t argue with that.

Jordan Zorby, our communications director, is organizing media interviews and tells them I’m not available. I should probably face the music, but I’m glad I don’t have to tonight. After showering and changing into our suits, we all board the bus back to the hotel. Once there, Dutch says, “Come on. Let’s go get a beer.”

Like I want to go and be chewed out for losing my shit. Then I catch Dutch’s eye and he’s not looking at me like he’s judging me; he looks like he’s concerned about me. “Okay.”

We head out toward Broadway. Nashville is usually one of my favorite places to visit, but tonight I’m just cranky. Kitty’s, a bluegrass place, is packed, but some bills trade hands and we soon have a table and a waitress with a big smile and bigger hooters standing next to us to take our drink orders.

“Okay, what happened?” Dutch asks once we’ve all got beers in front of us and the flirty waitress has departed.

A live band is playing, so I have to lean in and shout to tell them what happened. “You guys saw it, right? He was riding my ass all night.”

“He was.” Copper shakes his head. “Dickhead.”

I draw in a slow breath. “He said something about Taylor.”

Everyone makes identical “Ooooh” noises.

“What did he say?” Dutch asks.

“Never mind.”

“Did he insult her?” Copper demands.

I glower into my beer. Steel guitar and banjo whine before the singer starts in about good corn liquor. That’s what I should be drinking. I lift my hand and the waitress hustles right over. She’s been watching us like a hawk.

“A round of your best corn whisky.” I manage a smile for her.

“Did he insult her?” Copper asks again.

“Yeah.”

“He can’t do that.” Dutch scowls and narrows his eyes. “She’s a sweetheart and doesn’t deserve that.”

Dutch flirted mercilessly when he first met Taylor, and still does, but I know it’s all in fun. The guys all like Taylor. He narrows his eyes. “Just wait till the next time we play them. He’s a dead man.”

“Fuck yeah,” Copper agrees.

“Yeah, yeah, the code, yadda yadda. We don’t settle things that way anymore.” My effort to be reasonable is half-hearted.

“In fact, I kinda want to go find him right now,” Abs muses, cracking his knuckles. “We could beat the crap out of him.”

“Off the ice we’d get arrested for assault.” I shake my head. Holy crap, I’m the voice of reason here. We’re in deep shit.

“Is he that hung up on her?” Dutch asks.

“I don’t get it.” I shrug. “He could’ve had her. He moved to Nashville and barely said goodbye to her.”

“Guess he regrets that.”

“No shit. But why is he taking it out on me? I didn’t steal her from him.” I catch their glances and my gut goes stone cold. “No! I did not! Why are you looking like that?”

“We heard what happened at Théo’s wedding.”

“They were broken up then! I didn’t even know they’d ever been together.” I meet their eyes resolutely. “It’s the truth. I didn’t move on her until I knew she wasn’t with anyone else.”

They all nod.

“What about you?” Dutch asks slowly. “Are you that hung up on her?”

“Me?” I open my eyes wide. “Nah.” I drop my gaze to my beer. “Just having fun.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously.” I shrug, trying for casual.

“Didn’t look like it, the way you reacted.”

I’m not falling in love with her. I know better than that. I make bad choices all the time, as I’ve so clearly displayed tonight. She doesn’t need that. Like Dutch said, she’s a sweetheart and I can’t be relied on to do the right thing. After all the stupid things I’ve done, I sure as hell would never expect someone to be serious about me.

“I don’t think Martinez is that hung up on her,” Copper says slowly. “I think he was just trying to get under your skin.”

“I already figured that out.”

“He just said that because he knew it would get to you.”

I fill my lungs with air and let it out. “You’re right. I knew that. But when he said it . . . I lost it.”

“Understandable.” Dutch lifts his chin. “That dickwad knew exactly what to say.”

“It won’t happen again.” As I say it, I realize what a huge mistake I’ve made.

I can’t get involved with someone to the point where I lose it during a game. I can’t care that much about someone. I can only care about hockey and playing my best and working on self-control and managing my emotions.

Christ . . . look what just happened. I lost a game because of my temper. Because of . . . Taylor.

I’m not blaming her. Not at all—don’t even think that. I’m blaming myself. Totally.

I’ve lost control of my emotions because of her. I got all riled up because of her. I’m feeling shit I’ve never felt before, and I can’t. I just can’t.

Things only get better the next day, when the Department of Player Safety slaps me with a one-game suspension, which is automatic for instigating a fight in the last five minutes of regulation time. I know that rule, but it was the last thing I was thinking about. And that’s on top of the two minutes for roughing, five for fighting, and ten-minute misconduct I got.

Dad’s on the trip with us and after we land in Tampa Bay, he searches me out in the hotel to have a word with me. I can feel the waves of disappointment rolling off him.

“Look, I know I overreacted,” I tell him. “I’ve had time to think about it and calm down.” Sort of. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to do better.”

“There are times we need to do things to send a message. That wasn’t one of them.”

“I know. Believe me. Uncle Mark and I already talked about this.”

Uncle Mark has calmed down from last night, but he’s still pissed that my penalties lost us the game.

“It won’t happen again,” I add glumly. I have to make sure of that.

Tonight I’m watching the game from the goddamn press box with Brando, who’s out with a bum ankle. I’ve got a cardboard cup of coffee in my hand and it’s all I can do to keep from crushing it, my fingers flexing with anger and frustration, wishing I were down on the ice. Wish they had something stronger than coffee in there.

Dad passes by on his way to the visiting management box and stops to speak to Brando about his ankle. To me, he’s Dad; to Brando, he’s the team owner. Brando even calls him Mr. Wynn. I still feel Dad’s displeasure. But hey, no one’s more pissed at me than I am at myself.

I watch Sokolov from the Lightning get possession of the puck and skate in on net. He fucking undresses Johnny and scores a goal that has the arena exploding. The coffee cup dents in my hands and my teeth grind together.

Brando and I exchange unhappy looks.

“Bad turnover,” he says mildly.

“No shit.”

We lose again, three–one, not a great way to start off after the Christmas break. We’re going home and I know what I have to do to make things better.