Page 1 of You, Again
1
VINNIE
“Our enemies can never hurt us very much. But oh, what about forgiving our friends?”—Willa Cather,My Mortal Enemy
Lights flashedand cell phones lit up the arena as the starting lineup took to the ice. Our hometown crowd roared in anticipation and appreciation, stomping their feet, clapping, and whooping like maniacs. These fans were voracious—and thankfully, forgiving.
Our season had been lackluster at best. We’d been plagued by injuries, a management shake-up, and a host of twenty other excuses that had kept us from the playoffs for the first time in a decade.
Not the way I wanted to go out, but this was it—the final game of my sixteen-year career.
My teammates slapped their palms on the C on my jersey and bumped my fist as their names were called.
Riley Thoreau, a talented center, a good friend, and most likely my replacement as captain, knocked his helmet against mine and grinned. “Gonna miss you, Kimbo.”
“Who’s gonna hide your tape next year, Trunk?”
“No one, fucker.” He snorted, fiddling with his mouthguard.
Side note: Nearly every team member on every squad I’d played for since Pee Wees was given a nickname. Sometimes it was a simple abbreviation of their first or last name, like mine. My last name was Kiminski, and some wise guy my rookie year joked that I came at the opponent like Rambo, guns blazing, no prisoners taken and—boom, I became Kimbo. Trunk Thoreau, on the other hand, was an average-sized man whose big-ass quads resembled tree trunks. Makes sense, right?
It was going to be weird as fuck to return to a world where people used first names on the regular.
I shook off my mopey vibes and cupped my ear. “You hear that? They’re restless out there. Get your ass in gear so we can get the party started.”
“And I suppose you’re the party?”
“You know it.” I winked.
He stomped his skates on the rubber mat. “Are you ready for everyone to ask what you’re doing for the rest of your life? Or this summer?”
“Fuck, no.”
“Didn’t think so.” Trunk held out his fist and tilted his chin meaningfully. “It’s been an honor, man. A fucking honor.”
Great, now I was feelingverklempt. I didn’t want to be sad tonight, and I didn’t want to think about summer…or autumn or winter.
I wanted to be completely in the moment. I wanted this to be a celebration. One last awesome game before I hung up my skates.
I stood alone at the mouth of the tunnel and watched the spectacle of lights in the dark, smiling as the crowd chanted my name, “Kimbo, Kimbo, Kimbo…” I took a cleansing breath, then glided onto the ice.
Seventeen thousand screaming fans jumped to their feet, whistling and cheering. I thumped my chest twice and held my stick in the air in acknowledgment. If possible, the decibel level in the arena rose to a fraction beneath ear-splitting.
What can I say?
I was Seattle’s hero, the scariest D-man in the West. I never backed down, I was tough on the boards, grumpy when my team lost, and slightly obnoxious when we won. Sue me…I yam what I yam—a six-foot-five, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound wall of solid muscle, and the fans here loved me.
Or they were at least entertained by my antics. Air guitar, disco moves, the impromptu dog piles…yeah, I always brought the party. More importantly, I kicked ass on the ice. I protected the net, intimidated our opponents, and scored at will.
I used to, anyway.
It sucked to admit it, but at thirty-six, I was a shadow of the player I’d been in my prime. Numerous concussions, multiple cracked ribs, and more broken bones than I could count had wreaked havoc on my body over the years. I was slower than I’d ever been and inclined to use brawn instead of my brain. Not a winning strategy.
To put it bluntly, I’d turned into a relic and what used to work didn’t anymore. Meh, what can you do? It happened to the best of us.
The writing was on the wall, and I wanted to go out with dignity—captain of the Slammers, career leading scorer for a D-man in the Western Conference, two-time Norris Trophy winner, and…the fiercest and funnest dude in the NHL.
Was funnest a word? Whatever. Not important.