Page 42

Nicko, March 29th

T he moment the locker room door falls shut, my teammates pounce on me.

“What the absolute fuck , Hoff?!” Zollweg yells out as he grabs me by the front of my jersey. I reach for his elbow, both to steady myself and to keep him from getting into my face.

“I could ask you the same! What happened to your last pair of brain cells?”

“He started the fight!”

I’ve never seen him like this, eyes spraying with fury and spit bubbling in the corners of his mouth.

Linus Zollweg was the obvious choice for the captaincy. Always level-headed, a hard worker, a good motivator. He was the first one by my side when I got injured last season, the first one to text and the first teammate to visit me in the hospital.

I have picked my brain apart over the past weeks, trying to think of a moment where he uttered a homophobic slur, and came up empty handed. But maybe I’ve just become so used to “locker room talk” that it hid in plain sight. Maybe he has always been like this, and I let him get away with it, because I didn’t want to be that guy. The one who makes a big fuss about his sexuality. The activist everyone is secretly annoyed with. The one known for his social media presence rather than his play.

Only now do I realize that I would rather be the guy who cost his team the Frozen Four than keep my mouth shut so we can walk away with a tainted win.

“You called him a fag!” I yell back, as if that will somehow make him understand the problem. I could have saved my breath, though, as Zollweg only snorts dismissively.

“Oh, God, really? That’s your problem? I could’ve called him an obnoxious asshole, same difference. It’s chirping. Have you forgotten how the fucking game works?”

He shoves me, and I stumble backward into Bergerson. Our goalie catches me, but glares at me. The guys—some standing, some sitting—are grumbling in agreement.

“I mean, it wasn’t a cool choice of insult,” Salah weighs in, drinking bottle in hand. “But I’ve been there before. People call me ugly things all the time. It’s part of the game. You take it like a man and go on. But crying to the refs like a baby? No, dude, that’s a shit move.”

“Have you lost it?” I throw my hands up at that. “You don’t have to just take something like that. That’s discrimination! It’s not comparable to being called an asshole. Neither Hart nor you should deal with something like that!”

“Well, I don’t think you can compare them. Yasar is not out there whining on social media and trying to score minority points. He’s just letting his play do the talking for him,” De Andre points out, and again a choir of mumbles goes through the locker room.

“What the hell?!” I erupt, slowly turning in a circle to look at all my teammates. I can’t believe the words coming out of their mouths right now. Sure, we never discussed this topic in the locker room, but I always assumed they’d share my opinion on this and ultimately would have my back.

“I mean, it’s not that big of a deal, man. He just called him names. It’s not like he endangered him. I don’t think it’s cool you’re ruining all of our chances to go to the Frozen Four,” Elrod butts in. “And I mean, your mind might already be in the NHL, but this is my last year of playing hockey. Do you know how fucking bad I want that trophy? And you just throw away that opportunity over a whiny cocksucker.”

“Like they’ll still sign him after a scene like that,” someone scoffs behind my back.

“Where’s all of this coming from anyways? I thought you were also fed up with Hart hogging the limelight and telling everyone and their grandma that he’s gay.”

I bite my lip at Bergerson’s question, cursing myself. He’s right; I used to say that. It’s just that I thought it didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. But the past weeks have proven me wrong. Hell, this very moment is exactly why it matters. Maybe one day in the future it won’t be an issue anymore, and players will be judged on their skills and talent alone. But until then, we can’t just overhear this kind of locker room talk, can’t just scroll past the social media post.

“I was wrong. He’s not hogging the limelight, he’s trying to bring attention to a bigger issue,” I tell him. My voice is calm but my hands are shaking inside my gloves, and I feel lightheaded.

“Bigger issue, sure,” Elrod snorts. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“Well, for one,” I answer, my eyes narrowed to slits when I fixate on him with my gaze, “that locker rooms are still filled with homophobes like you.”

There’s an explosion of voices, several of my teammates speaking all over each other, outraged and dismissive.

Elrod, however, just lets out a snort. “Careful with the big allegations, Hoff,” he sneers. I want nothing more than to bury my fist in his fucking face, but I’m also about to puke from nerves alone.

“Okay, everyone shut up now!” Zollweg shouts. “Here’s what we’ll do: Everyone take a deep breath and untwist your panties. And once the ref decides we can resume the game, we’ll go out there and win this shit. The rest can wait until tomorrow.”

I open my mouth in protest, but he stops me by raising his hand, and like the dumb idiot I am, I snap it shut again.

“And if you’re that bothered, Nicko, I’m even going to shake Hart’s hand and kiss his emotional booboos away. But I’m not a fucking homophobe, and I don’t think you should fling that word around so easily. This shit can ruin caree–”

“YOU CALLED HIM A FAG!” I yell out. This time, I’m the one to pounce. I can’t help it anymore, my anger and frustration spilling over like hot lava. I can’t stand to hear another condescending word out of his dirty fucking mouth. I shove him hard against the chest, the impact knocking him right onto his ass. But before I can jump him, Kristiansson grabs me by the arm.

“It’s not worth it, Nicko,” he murmurs. “Some people are dumb like that.”

I blink, momentarily stunned. During the whole conversation, no one sided with me, but when I look at my right winger, he’s regarding our captain with open disgust.

“Yeah,” Katz agrees. “And I don’t want to be associated with them. So I’m not going out there again.” With that said, he and his linemate Becker simultaneously plop down onto the bench to start untying their skates.

“Have you lost it?! You’re blowing this shit out of proportion! Maybe I did say fag, I don’t even know anymore. I just went for the obvious thing, okay? If he were ugly I would have called him that, but he promotes his dick-sucking all over social media so I called him a fa–”

I’ve never seen one of my teammates move so fast before.

One moment Aldridge is sitting quietly on the bench, face in his hands, the next he’s on Zollweg. The sound of breaking bones fills the air when his fist collides with Zollweg’s nose. A spray of blood lands on the pristine wall, the red droplets almost artsy on the white background.

For a moment everything falls silent. Then chaos erupts.

Zollweg screams. Aldridge screams. Everyone screams.

There are hands grabbing for both of them, guys shoving each other against lockers and onto benches.

“This is all your fault!” Elrod tells me, but Kristiansson already flips him off.

Aldridge is trying to fight the guys who are forcefully pulling him off Zollweg.

“I dare you to say that word one more time, fucker! I dare you!” he shouts over and over again. With all the mayhem unfolding, no one notices when the door swings open. It’s only when a sharp whistle rings in our ears that everything comes to an abrupt halt.

Coach is standing in the door frame, arms crossed over his chest.

“What is going on here?”