Delayed Penalty by Shey Stahl

3. Zone

Three areas made up by the two blue lines. The attacking zone is the area farthest from the goal a player is defending. The neutral zone is the central area. The defending zone is the area where a player’s goal is and where the team’s goalie is stationed.

Evan

After taking two showers and trying to scrub every reminder from my body, I sit in my living room watching highlights from the Eastern Conference games. I know what I’m trying to do, don’t you?

Not think of her. It’s impossible for me not to.

I bet you’re still thinking about her too. You’re probably wondering all the same things I am. Who is she? Why was she in the alley? Is she gonna live?

Sports Center distracts me for about, I don’t know, an hour. And then I make an excuse to head to the hospital. Well, actually, it starts with me getting coffee up the street at a small roadside cart that’s thankfully open on Christmas, and since I’m in the area, might as well check on her, right?

Just agree with me at this point. You know I don’t like to argue. Or stand for anyone disagreeing with me, which is essentially the same thing. I’m rather selfish, aren’t I?

At the hospital, her doctor isn’t around, but they say he lives only a few minutes away. Now that I think about it, I did recognize him. He lives in the same building as me.

I stand at the nurses’ station, nervously waiting for how she’s doing. “Any better?”

She smiles up at me. “You know I’m not supposed to tell you any of this.”

“I’m the only friend she has. I’m practically family,” I argue.

The nurse sighs. “No, you’re not.”

I glance down at her name tag. “Ask her when she wakes up. I’m her boyfriend, Nora.” I’m pulling out all the stops here. Even lean into the counter. You know the lean, the half-interested, half-cocky one. If that’s a thing. I don’t know but I try it, well aware that these are all lies I’m telling this chick. I’m gonna have to start writing them down so I remember all of them.

You can tell Nora’s nervous to tell me anything because her eyes dart around the hospital and then back to mine, but her voice lowers and she bats her lashes. “She’s holding steady. The doctor went back in last night because she had another bleed.”

My heart sinks. “Is that normal? Does that happen a lot?”

“Sometimes.” Despite Nora’s obvious annoyance, her voice is even, calm, as if she tells people these kinds of things every day, and I’m sure she does. It does nothing to ease my mind. “Everyone with head injuries are different.”

I don’t like the sound of that either. “Can I see her?”

With a heavy sigh, she pushes away from her desk. “I’m totally going to lose my job over this.”

“I’ll get it back for you,” I tell her. Another lie. “I’m really good at persuasion.” I flash a smile and her cheeks warm.

“As I’m finding out.” She stands from her place at the station. “Come on, best friend.”

I fight back laughter and I’m kinda impressed with myself. Also, what the fuck am I thinking telling all these lies? If this girl loses her job over this, I’m gonna feel like the biggest dick of all time. Guiding me through another set of doors and up two flights of stairs, I’m beginning to think she’s sneaking me in the back way. Looking both ways, she nods to a door to her left. “You have ten minutes, boyfriend.”

“Thanks,” I say, winking at her.

The second I’m in the room, that gut-wrenching, nauseating feeling returns.

She looks about the same, more bruising evident on her face and a thicker bandage on her head. It’s then I realize how tiny she is. She’s fragile, broken… innocent and undeserving of what she’s gone through. While I’m relieved she’s alive, I’m sad for her. She’s alone on Christmas. Nobody here but me, her supposed best friend.

Nora peeks her head inside. “You have to get out of here!” she whispers and practically yanks me out of there.

“Thanks,” I tell her when we’re back at the nurses’ station.

“Remember, you owe me a job if I get fired.”

“Got it.” I wink again. “How about hockey tickets for the trouble?”

“Oh, wow.” Her cheeks heat again and she does that thing where girls batt their eyelashes a bunch, as if they don’t know what to say. “My boyfriend actually loves hockey.”

I take her hand and write my agent’s phone number on it. “Text this number and Wade will hook you up with tickets.”

“That’s amazing.” She’s practically giddy now, staring at her hand. “Thank you!”

I force a smile. “I appreciate you breaking the rules for me.”

“Shit. I just broke another.” Nora flops her arms up. “I’m accepting a gift in turn for patient confidentiality. I’m really going to get fired.”

I place my hand on her shoulder. “You’re not going to get fired. I don’t think. And I won’t say who let me in.”

“They have cameras.”

I look up to the cameras she gestures toward. “I won’t tell if you don’t. I’ll be in the waiting area if anything changes.”

She laughs, stepping away from me when her pager goes off. “See ya, Evan Masen.”

I snort at the way she says my name, as if she can’t believe she just met me. I send a quick text to my agent and let him know I handed out tickets again. It’s certainly not the first time, or the last I’ve worked my way out of trouble with tickets.

Knowing Leo won’t be traveling this Christmas, I call him after I leave the room.

I tell him what happened and he immediately comes to the hospital. He claims I shouldn’t be alone on Christmas.

“A kid named Benson says hello?”

Leo quirks an eyebrow at me. “Do I know him?”

“Probably not. He’s your biggest fan?”

“I’m so likable.”

“And conceited,” I add, staring at the doors that lead to where I know the doctors come out of when they have news.

“I wonder who did this to her?” Leo asks, flipping through a magazine he finds next to him. His usually curly, light brown hair is matted to one side and judging by his tired, bloodshot eyes, he had a long night. Or maybe never went to bed. I bet he left that bar, hooked up with some chick and hasn’t gone to sleep yet.

“I don’t know, but every time I think about it, I want to fucking kill the guy.” I shake my head, staring at the tile floor. Leaning back in the chair, I cross my arms over my chest, shifting my weight to the side. “What the fuck possesses someone to do that shit?”

Leo’s eyes catch a nurse as she walks past. “Not sure, man.” He leans forward, motioning to the chick. “Hey, ya think it’d be weird if I asked that girl to examine my dick. It’s itchy.”

I stare at him, trying to decide if he’s serious. He jokes a lot. “Yes, that would be weird.” Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at him and then back to the floor. “Don’t do that.”

“Fine. You look at it. Tell me if I’m dying.” Leo stands, reaching for the button of his jeans, his dark flannel pushed up showing me his stomach. “I’m really worried.”

Before he has the chance to unbutton his jeans, I punch his stomach with a good amount of force behind it. “Get your dick out of my face.”

He falls over, clutching his gut, sputtering, “You’re such a jerk sometimes.”

“Well, I’m confused.” I chuckle, watching those around us who know who we are but are too afraid to come over and ask. “At what point in our relationship did you think it would be okay to show me your dick?”

Leo rolls over onto his stomach, coughs then gets back in the chair beside me. “Oh hey, look!” He nudges my ribs—still a little winded—pointing toward another nurse walking in our direction with a handful of gray files stacked in one hand and a Starbucks coffee in her other. “Bro, isn’t that Natalie?”

I squint, trying to make the girl’s face out. I remember her, well, her lips anyway. They give me some good memories. Natalie walks right by us until Leo whistles and she stops. “You really gonna ignore two Blackhawks?”

Natalie stops dead in her tracks, pushing her glasses up her nose and glances at us. Realization hits her and she half smiles and walks over to us. “Let me guess, waitin’ on Remy?”

“Nope.” Leo laughs, reaching for her badge, and then snags it from her scrubs before she can get it back and shoves it inside his pocket. “Mase here is stalking a girl in the ICU.”

“Leo!” I smack him on the side of the head. I eye Natalie. “I’m not stalking her,” I point out, feeling like that needs to be said. But am I? Is this stalking? No, no. This is me being a good guy. This is me doing the right thing and being there for someone who has no one.

Natalie reaches for her name tag but Leo slams his hand over his pocket, waving his other hand at her. “If you want this, you gotta check something for me.”

She eyes him carefully. “What?”

“Wrong question to ask,” I mumble, more intent on the snow fall from the window behind her.

“My dick.” Yep. He said that. Leo once again reaches for his jeans, this time getting the top button undone before Natalie kicks his shin. “It’s red,” he defends as if that will make dropping his pants in a hospital okay.

“Gross. I’m not that kind of doctor.”

“You’re a doctor?” Leo asks, surprised.

Natalie rolls her eyes. “Yes. I’m a pediatrician. Why?”

“I thought you were a nurse,” I point out, looking at the snow again.

“No. I never said that.” Natalie balks, more than likely offended that we thought she was a nurse. Her weight shifts from one foot to the other and she tries to get her badge back. In the process, she practically spills her coffee on me and sits on my lap. “Give me that, Leo.”

Leo laughs, shaking his hand at her. “Check out my dick and you can have your badge back.”

With a groan, I push Natalie off my lap and leave the two of them bickering over dicks and badges to find the vending machines.

Wandering around, I ask myself what the hell I’m even doing here. This is crazy, right? It’s Christmas. I should be with my family. What the fuck am I doing?

When I get back to the waiting room, Natalie is gone, but Leo is asleep in the chair I left him in. Out of pure jealousy that he’s sleeping, and I’m not, I kick his left leg.

He startles awake, looking around and glaring at me. “What the fuck was that for?”

“I tripped.” I just sat down when a nurse wearing navy scrubs comes over to us.

“Which one of you is Evan Masen?” When she says my name, her eyes lift from the clipboard to meet mine and then back to the clipboard as if she has to be sure. Recognition. She knows the name. A smile creeps over her. “You’re Evan Masen with the Chicago Blackhawks, aren’t you?”

At least she’s not upset. And hopefully not about to tell me Nora’s fired for letting me see Ami earlier. I nod, raising my eyebrows as if to say “What do you want?” but I’m not rude about it.

Leo straightens up in the chair, reaching for her badge. She’s quicker than Natalie was and slaps his hand away. “Don’t touch that.” Then she recognizes him. “Oh, hey, you’re Leo Orting! Holy crap. I’m so glad I took Kelsey’s shift today.”

Leo must be her favorite player because she’s blushing now and barely able to hold her hands steady.

Next thing I know, Leo is asking her to dinner. Apparently he’s forgotten about his itchy dick.

“Why did you really come over here?” I interrupt as they exchange phone numbers.

“Oh, uh, your girlfriend, Ami Sutton’s in room five on the third floor if you want to see her.” Her hand meets her hip. “I was told to pass that information on to you. They’ll allow you back there for a little while, but where she’s at visitors are not allowed. Seems the doctor pulled a few strings, and now I know why.” She grins at Leo, who in turn gives her a cocky nod. I have a feeling he’s about to make her Christmas unforgettable later.

Leo looks over at me and mouths, “Girlfriend?”

I shrug. Hey, whatever gets me in to see her. If I have to say I’m her fiancé, I probably will at this point. I might draw the line at husband because that could cause some problems.

I glance down at my phone in my hand to check the time. I hadn’t realized how late it had gotten, but it’s now ten o’clock in the morning. On a day when most people are opening presents, Ami is fighting for her life. And Leo’s trying to open his own present. This chick’s scrubs.

Watching Leo trying to score once again today, part of me thinks maybe I should catch a quick flight to Pittsburgh and see my family, but the other part doesn’t want to leave.

Part of me is bummed I’m missing out. Christmas with my family is always a major production. Our entire family comes over—aunts, uncles, cousins, and even friends gathered in our suburban home for the entire day. Fights between my cousins and me usually break out, and most of the time my dad will pick a fight with his older brother when one bets the other he can’t do something. It’s always off-the-wall shit, too, like “I bet you can’t jump off the roof and land it,” as though that’s something grown men should be doing. One time they even blew up a deep fryer. Luckily nobody was injured but they did make the news that Christmas.

My mother, she’s the soft-spoken woman, takes it all in good humor. She’d have to be being married to my dad. She’s a professional caterer. Parties are her thing, and drama is part of the game.

Wendy, the nurse Leo has a date with later and has Leo hanging off her arm, leads me to the third floor ICU. “Your girl’s in there.”

My girl? When did this happen? I do smile a little when I notice Ami’s room number is five. My number.

Coincidence?

Perhaps. But still, it makes me smile.

I open the door to see Ami lying in bed, looking much the same as yesterday. Swollen. Bruised. Beaten. Lifeless.

Wendy gestures to the room. “Talk to her. She has no one.”

I hate the reminder. Leo and I exchange a glance. He looks nervous and steps back away from the door. “I’ll wait out here.”

I swallow, trying to nod, but instead I shake my head and turn to the door. The churning in my gut, the fog in my head, the uncontrolled beating of my heart has returned, as have the images.

Jesus. Instantly, it’s as if the deepest breaths will do nothing for me. She looks… worse. The blood on her body has been cleaned up but the dark bruises are scattered across any skin outlined by bright red splotches. Everywhere I look her skin is colored. Spattered with evidence that she’s been through something unimaginable.

Immediately, my mind stalls on the incident. What led her to look like this? The beating, the force of his hits to do this damage, it’s repulsive. It’s one thing to hear about someone being raped or beaten, but to see it—see the aftermath and witness the person struggling for their life—that’s different. That shit puts it into perspective. It happens so often most don’t blink an eye.

This girl is only a few years older than my fifteen-year-old sister. What if this happens to her?

My hands clench at the thought. My throat is so tight I feel like I’m trying to swallow back pills dry as blood rushes to my face. I’m pissed. I want to find this motherfucker and do the damage to him that he’s done to her. I want him begging for his penance and bleeding right along with her.

That’s what he deserves.

Taking a seat before I fall over, I sit beside her and automatically reach for her hand that’s resting on top of the blanket. Gently, careful of the IV, I hold it in mine. Her hand is so tiny it makes mine look huge. Slowly, I lift my hand to her face and touch her cheek like I did the night I found her. The tube is taped to the right side of her mouth, her lips swollen. My eyes are drawn to the large cut above her eye. She still has that thick white bandage around her head.

I look away again, an angry growl emitting from me as I try to not punch the fucking wall.

It doesn’t work. I punch the wall beside me. But that doesn’t help either.

What the hell?Why am I having such strong feelings about this?

I can feel the anger coursing through me in waves. One minute I’m fine, I’m not going to let this control me, but the next, I’m not. My face gets hot, and again, I want to find the guy. I want him to pay for what he’s done to this girl. She’s not some faceless person I don’t know any more. She’s Ami Sutton and damn it, I’m her person now. I’m the one fighting for her when she can’t.

Shifting back and forth in the chair from nerves, I hold her hand again, lifting it to my lips. “Hang in there, Ami.” I stroke her hand once, before standing. “Hang in there, honey.”

Honey? What the fuck? Am I taking this girlfriend thing seriously? But here’s the thing. While I intend on leaving, I can’t. I can’t physically move from my spot beside her. I don’t want to. So I sit back down until Wendy returns three hours later and tells me the doctors will be making rounds soon and I have to leave.

I do, but not without one last glance. A glance I shouldn’t have taken because it’s a memory I will never forget.

Back to the waiting room, I still can’t bring myself to leave the hospital. I stand there watching the snow fall in the same spot I had when I started the day. My mind constantly returns to one thought. What will happen if she doesn’t make it? Will I be able to handle that?

“Hey, man.” Leo stands beside me, his phone in hand, typing out a message. “Wanna get some food?” He glances up at me and then back to his phone. “It’s Christmas.”

We exchange a look and he knows damn well I can’t leave here.

He wraps his arm around my shoulder. “Come on, head case. Maybe the cafeteria is open.”

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall behind us and have to do a double take. Definitely need to get my shit together. I’m an NHL hockey player. I hardened defenseman who lets nothing bother them.

Until now.

Until her.

“I thought you were with Wendy?” I ask as we walk toward the elevators.

Leo glances over at me, his attention diverted from his phone as he runs a hand over his smirk. “I was. You were in her room for over an hour. I didn’t need that long with Wendy. You saw those fucking legs, right?”

I laugh but don’t give him an answer.

He pushes the button on the wall to the cafeteria. “A man only has so much restraint, and besides....” He tucks his phone in his pocket when the elevator stops and we walk to the cafeteria. “You need someone tonight. I’m that person.”

“I’m fine, Leo. You don’t need you to babysit me.”

“I know. I want to be here with you. And your girlfriend.” His eyes follow a tall redheaded nurse as she walks around the corner. “For a lot of reasons. Jesus Christmas!” He shakes his head. “Do they make it a rule in this hospital that you have to be smoking fucking hot?”

“No idea.”

We order food. None of it looks appealing, but I eat regardless. “What did you guys end up doing the other night?” I ask Leo, wondering how much trouble they got into when they went out after the Detroit game.

Leo groans. “Man, it was a fucking disaster. Remy got into a fight with some asshole who was already roughed up when he got there. Remy pushed him and then I don’t even know what happened to Dave and Travis. They left at some point. I ended up meeting up with them in the morning for a little while, but I can’t remember half the shit that happened.”

I’m not surprised. Same shit every time they go out. “When did you guys get home?”

“Four? I’m not sure. I met back up with Dave and Travis around seven. I think. They both looked like hell. I didn’t realize they took so many licks in that game with Detroit, but man, both of them looked like shit.” He pauses and motions to my face. “So do you, by the way. Matzy got ya good.”

He’s right. I do look like shit. The memory of standing in the shower, washing away an innocent girl’s blood gives me an idea as to my appearance. And then I think about Ami, and nothing compares to what she went through, or what she was about to go through.

Game 37 – Nashville Predators

The morning is cold and dreary, which doesn’t help my mood as I drive from my condo to the airport. We’re flying out to Nashville for game thirty-seven of the season. I’m on edge. I’m antsy and really fucking annoyed because my phone hasn’t stopped ringing all morning.

Can you guess why?

What I figured would happen eventually, but it day after Christmas, the media caught wind of Ami and now every news article is talking about Evan Masen’s girlfriend who was beaten to near death on Christmas Eve.

I don’t know what shocks people more. That Evan Masen has a girlfriend and didn’t announce it all over social media, or that she was brutally raped and beaten. Maybe both.

I hate all of it. That I have to explain my involvement to my lawyer and PR guy, that she’s being tied to me without her knowing. And that my damn phone is ringing. I shouldn’t have to explain myself for being a good person.

My mom found out, ripped me a new one over voicemail for not telling her I had a girlfriend. And that I lied to her about not being able to come home yesterday.

So yeah, cranky as fuck and my routine and my mood is all over the damn place over a girl.

On one hand I’m excited to get back on the road and play hockey, but on the other, I feel guilty as fuck about leaving and annoyed I’m thinking about her.

Worst of all, it’s like I’m having some kind of PTSD of the night and I wasn’t even the one hurt. Probably because everywhere I look it’s talked about now.

One thing I do appreciate is being back on the ice; I’m there to play hockey and so are the guys around me.

When Coach O’Brien blows his whistle, the thought of Ami drifts and the unwanted drills begin. Our head coach is not someone who’s easy to like, but he’s respected. He doesn’t slap backs, fist-bump—nothing. The only way you know you’re doing well and he’s happy is if he’s yelling at you. When he’s silent, then you should worry.

If he talks to reporters after the game, he’s all business, no smile, keeping his eyes above them. It’s a rarity, but if he takes a player aside, he speaks to them and takes the time to explain something that, to him, is annoyingly clear, until they are able to get inside his head and see he isn’t that bad a guy, just misunderstood.

I’m cool with Coach O’Brien, never have any problems but I don’t care too much for our assistant coach, Duane. Without any flair or fucking charm, he’s about as abrasive as sandpaper and explodes for just about anything. He’s Irish, too, if that tells you anything.

“What’s going on?” Duane asks me when I get checked by Remy during warm-ups. Okay, he didn’t check me. I wasn’t watching where I was going and ran right into him.

“Nothing,” I lie.

“Does it have anything to do with what was all over the news this morning?”

I shrug one shoulder. “Possibly.”

“Is it going to be a problem?”

I shake my head.

“Now get your fucking head in it.”

I skate away, rolling my eyes only to have Remy smirk.

Remy, I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned him with all the shit going on lately, but he’s a left wing on the team. Remy and Duane, they’ve never got along. They can’t even be in the same room together, and if Duane had it his way, he’d trade Remy in a heartbeat, but we needed Remy. He knows that. Honestly, I rarely feel favored by either coach, but I know they ultimately like me. Leo is their favorite because he scores more than anyone in the league. He’s everyone’s favorite.

As practice continues, Duane is leaning on the boards, yelling at Remy about something when my mind returns to Ami. I see her lying in the snow and the blood she was covered in. The images of me in the shower, the blood, her blood, being washed away. Every single thought I have has shifted and now every thought, every memory is of Ami. And it pisses me off. In turn, the anger spills out of my head and into my actions on the ice. I know what I’m doing. I’m letting my emotions win and releasing the pent-up frustration the only way I know how. Hockey.

Taking shots at the goal, Remy lays into me.

“What’s your problem?”

“Nothing.” I try to focus on our goalie, but Remy isn’t letting me off that easy.

“Not buying it.” Remy shoves against my shoulder, sending me rocking slightly. I keep my footing on the ice and glare at him. “How’s the girlfriend?”

I groan and hit my stick between his legs. “Change the subject.”

His dark eyebrows waggle as he rolls backward to avoid my stick hitting his nut sac. “She got a sister?”

Leo skates around us, flashing Remy a look and turns toward him. “Lay off, man.”

“No way.” Remy continues, never knowing when enough is enough. “You jerks are always baggin’ on my girls. What’s with you, Mase? How’d we not know you had a girlfriend?”

Leo and I exchange a look. His voice drops to maintain a certain amount of privacy we don’t have with the guys around us. “Come on, dude.” Leo pushes him away from me. “It’s not what it looks like. He found her in the alley almost dead. Her family is dead. No, she ain’t got no sister, and she’s barely alive right now. Not exactly a time to be dishin’ on her.”

Realization hits him. He knows better than anyone that the media spins shit to their own advantage. He’s constantly under fire on social media for who he is or isn’t dating. “Oh.” Remy gives a tight nod.

“Yeah, don’t be a dick,” Leo adds, smiling at me. “Leave his girl alone.”

“She’s not my girl,” I point out, skating away and around the back side of the goal post. “She’s just a girl.”

But is she? I… don’t think I know anymore and it’s only been two days.

“Have you heard anything?” Leo asks, not more than a minute later, nudging me forward in the line, each one of us taking shots at the goal.

I shrug. “No.” I take my turn at a shot and then circle around the back of the line. Leo does the same and then comes up behind me. “I called the hospital when we landed and no word yet.”

He eyes me carefully. “You hung up on her?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m hung up on her. Just concerned.” I’d love to say I’m convincing but Leo knows me too well.

“She’s in your zone.” Leo’s eyes shift to commotion on the ice. We look up and see Cage, our goalie, shove Remy away from him. Instead of trying to shoot the puck for practice, Remy takes his stick and waits around the back side of the net. When guys go for the shot, he smacks Cage in the back of the head.

Leo jets off the ice for a minute and then comes back to the line.

“Oh man...” He jabs the end of his stick into my ribs. “I forgot to ask you, how was that girl after the Bruins game? She looked fuckin’ wicked.”

“Man,” I groan as we make our way over to the boards, looking over my shoulder as I remember the raven-haired beauty I took home a few weeks back. “Seriously, five times that night she wanted to go. I finally had to tell her to leave.”

Just as the words leave my lips, I realize there’s something up with Leo. His smile is too wide and he’s leaning over the boards like he’s trying to act cool, but I’m not buying it.

I look at Leo. Leo looks at me. And then he turns, trying to hide his laughter.

“Are you mic’d up?” I finally ask, taking a shot, unamused. This isn’t the first time Leo has done that shit to me. He once got me talkin’ shit about a defenseman with the Boston Bruins, only to find out we were filming a commercial together the next day.

I had some explaining to do.

“Yep.” He beams, twirling around as though he’s a figure skater. I follow his head tip toward the monitors. “Gotta love ESPN.”

I shove him against Remy who approaches us, knocking them both into the boards. “Assholes.”

“Mase!” Leo gestures to the camera pointed at us. “Keep it PG-13 for the kids.”

I want to say so much more but don’t. Coach is eyeing us. “Uh-oh.” Leo laughs. “Daddy’s not happy.”

By the way, Coach does not like to be called Dad by Leo, but he still does it.

 

When the game starts, I’m focused. Sure, there’s a lingering part of my thoughts on Ami, but the action on the ice brings me out of it quickly.

Play is focused in the crease, and it’s my job to defend our goal. I break the plays up, block shots, cover forwards, and clear the puck in front of the goal. If someone is roughing up our forwards, I’m in their face answering the bell.

Offensively speaking, I get the puck to the forwards and follow play into the attacking zone, staying around the blue line at the points. I’m not a high scorer since it isn’t my job. My job is to defend and protect with my own style. And I do in fact have my own style. Starting out as a forward in junior hockey, I learned speed and accuracy. Then they moved me to a defender position when they saw how forceful I was with the puck.

Turns out it was a good fit for me.

I tend to play with speed and force where guys like Leo will control the puck and slow the plays down. Don’t get me wrong, he has crazy stick skills. It’s what we need and exactly why he’s our captain.

I get Leo the puck, and he gets the goal.

Like tonight. Play is in the Predators’ zone at the blue line, quickly moving forward. The puck rolls to the Predators’ goalie, who covers it with his catching glove. Everyone stops, except for me. I race for the goalie, stopping inches from him, throwing a spray of snow in his face, hacking at his glove again and again. Their left wing shoves me back, about the time their goalie rolls the puck to another defenseman to my right, and play starts back the other way.

That happens every possession change.

A quick pass and it’s two-on-one at our blue line with only Travis hanging back. Leo, with his speed, shoots up ice and hooks the puck away and follows through onto bare ice. A shoving match breaks out at the crease again. This time it’s Remy and the Predators’ left winger.

For someone with his obvious talent, Remy is an extraordinary player. He believes what he says and fuck if he doesn’t practice it. He’s tough too. That motherfucker will knock your teeth out as soon as you turn your back. Believe me, I know. I still have my teeth, but he’ll rock ya for sure.

Peeling himself off the boards, Remy glares at the Predators’ left wing. “Oh, I’ll catch ya with your fuckin’ head down, all right!” Remy shouts back, commotion all around him and Nashville’s rookie center. “What a bitch.”

Nashville calls a timeout after that. We stand huddled around the bench, Leo humping his stick and poking it into a rookie’s ear. “Stop that.” Ryan, another rookie on our team, sits on the bench next to a still fuming Remy and smacks Leo’s stick away from him and right into Remy’s face.

Remy turns his head, doesn’t say anything to him, but the look of death he gives him is enough. He scoots down away from him and we all start laughing.

When you’re on the bench you see the game differently. You see it for what it is: adrenaline, desire, commitment, heart, sweat, and even ruthlessness at times. You can see the plays, the shit your team is fucking up, and you can see the skill in players you never noticed before.

Like Travis, a right wingman for us. He has hands that are quick and skilled to perfection. On the ice, I never see that because my focus is on the game.

Since late October, Leo, Remy, Travis, Dave, and I formed a line with Cage defending the pipes. We usually start games and end them. It’s just the way it is. Four lines are actively played each night, rotating every thirty seconds to a minute. Your first and second lines are the scorers, the guys who make the plays. The third and fourth lines are the penalty killers and the checkers.

Play stops at Nashville’s blue line. Dave and a defender with Nashville are chirping at each other. Dave gets called on roughing and then is slapped with a major when he takes a swing after the whistle. He seems intense tonight, off maybe. We all have nights like that. Hell, I’m having one.

Dave, though quiet and unassuming at times, has a mean streak on the ice. I’ve seen it before, and I know if Nashville doesn’t knock that shit off, they’ll be seeing more of Dave. Already marked up from the game with the Red Wings a few days ago, he looks pretty fierce with six stitches above his black eye.

When I first moved to Chicago last year, I stayed with Dave, and he became a good friend to me. Having never been to the city, it was nice to have someone to hang out with who could show me around. Someone who understood the lifestyle we have. He’s been playing for Chicago for four years and was the captain of the team until Leo showed up. Bitter maybe, at the changes when Leo came, but definitely enjoying the freedom of not being the captain.

My time spent living with Dave was interesting. That guy sees so much action. I don’t know what he does to get them there, but he has a revolving door of women. The summer after my first season, I decided to get my own place and I’m glad I did. That lifestyle wasn’t for me.

When the puck drops, Nashville gets possession, end to end, hard aggressive play again. “Look up, look up!” Leo yells from his place on the bench. He can see Cage, our goalie, shift his position the wrong direction.

Cage has his fucking head down, and Nashville snags the pocket for the tie.

Roughing is called at the crease. Remy has shoved another winger, knocked him down, and then makes a suggestive move that implies more than what the refs think is appropriate. I can’t imagine why they think Remy making motions of him sucking his dick isn’t appropriate. Regardless, Remy earns himself a five-minute major, bows to the fans, and then flips them off. Nashville has their power play they’re looking for. The crowd is on their feet howling in response and my shift change is approaching. Before long, I take the ice again.

That’s when I notice Nashville’s right winger eyeing me. I sent his ass to the hospital in a game last season. He should have known not to fuck with me again, but I guess he doesn’t.

Circling center ice, I can tell he’s looking for retribution. He drops his gloves, and I smile. It’s pretty stupid of him if he actually thinks about it. First of all, I’m bigger than him, not to mention the fact that he’s been cheap-shotting me all night and I’m pretty pissed about that already. Also, you know what kind of mood I’m in, so I suppose now is as good a time to take it out on someone. I take one swing, and he goes down. Somehow I slip and we are on the ice, my elbow instantly meeting his face. I take the fight right out of him and land us both in the penalty box.

Good news is there’s some girls sitting beside the box. “Hey baby!” one yells and I look over to a nice-looking blonde in a hot pink shirt with her tits pressed against the boards. Smiling, I tap the glass with my stick and wink at her.

After the game, pink shirt girl is there waiting by the locker rooms. Any other time I would have taken her home and showed her a good time. Sadly, we have to catch a plane back to Chicago so there isn’t time for that.

Also, I’d like to point out, despite what you might think, it’s not that I make a habit of taking girls home with me because I don’t, but there are a few I have.

When I first asked a girl out, I was twelve, she was thirteen, and she shot me down. My mom told me the right girl was out there for me. All moms have to say that, but I kind of believed her even through my tears. Yes, I cried when she shot me down.

It’s a hard shot to take at twelve when the first girl you asked out crushed your soul, like you didn’t even have one to begin with. I eventually got the nerve to ask another girl out. That time I was sixteen, and she said yes. We dated for probably a year and then hockey got in the way. I was a bit of a flirt and Jessica, the girl I dated in high school, didn’t like that so much. The real dick move came when I ended up losing my virginity to her best friend in the back of her car after my Major Juniors team won the J. Ross Robertson Cup that year.

Yeah, douche move, but I was a kid, and I liked to think I wouldn’t ever do that shit again.

During my last season in the Major Juniors, I played on the ice, but I got my fair share of play off the ice, too. After I was drafted, I had more pussy thrown my way than I knew what to do with. There were times I would have four or five girls a night, and the same thing the next night, only with different girls. It was insane.

But that got old. Boring. After a while I realized they were only there because of my status. It has absolutely nothing to do with them actually liking me as a person.

That’s where I’m at now. Bored with the puck bunnies, believe or not.

I can’t say the same for the rest of the guys on the team.

Beside me, Remy bites his fist as we’re leaving the arena and eyes the girl in the hot pink shirt. “Damn. I might need to be traded to Nashville.”

We all laugh, but I wouldn’t put it past him to be serious.

Since we won, we head back to Chicago to play Nashville again, this time on home ice.

When we get to the airport, I contemplate heading to the hospital. I know visiting hours are long past, and even if I do see her, the images would only piss me off.

It’s like anytime I think about her, or her situation, it sends my blood boiling and my heart racing. Nothing will stop it either.

Game 38 – Nashville Predators - Home Game

The boys and I are tired during the morning skate. We skate around, passing pucks between ourselves, ignoring Duane in the corner. Every so often he shouts something at us, but we ignore him just for the hell of it. We liked to piss him off sometimes. Coming off a win last night, we test our luck. Had we lost, there would have been a different mood on the ice.

Finally, Duane blows the whistle and our unwanted drills begin. We skate to the cadence of his relentless chatter, sprinting in between the blue lines, coasting through the corners, and then sprinting again. It continues for several minutes. We practice more than we play, but in doing so we work toward one goal: becoming a team.

We can’t control our energy from the win, Remy and Leo especially. Each bad play becomes more entertaining and amusing than the last. When Ryan’s pass to Leo crashes against the underside of a seat, five rows into the stands, Duane blows his whistle and calls for a scrimmage.

Leo gets in line. “I wanna shove that fucking whistle up his ass,” he remarks, skating by out of breath. “I wanna shove it right up there.” He gestures with his stick in the air.

I chuckle, the thought not far from my mind either. By the way he’s working us today, you would have thought we lost.

Scrimmage doesn’t go any better. At first, he stops the play with each mistake he sees, but eventually he gives up. It turns into a game of us messing around, breakaways, and countless goals. We celebrate in a suggestively vulgar manner that we aren’t able to do when twenty thousand fans are watching.

After practice, Leo and Remy are hunting for trouble. If you’ve never spent any time around a hockey team, I’ll give you one piece of advice. They love to play pranks. Every single day.

So while Remy and Leo are looking for trouble, I know who they’re about to get. The rookie. They find a Gatorade Ryan leaves in his locker while he’s in the shower. They unscrew the cap and tape his shoes together. Leo heads to the showers and I check my phone, looking for any indication the hospital might have called to tell me Ami is awake. Maybe then I’ll stop thinking about her. I have it in my head that if she wakes up, I’ll know she’s okay and I can stop worrying.

Ryan comes back from his shower, turns on the television and then takes a seat next to me. He lifts the Gatorade to put it in his bag and a wash of red liquid spills all over his clean pants. He hangs his head in defeat. “Fucking Leo!”

Laughter breaks out in the shower.

Told you they were into pranks. Every day it’s something different too.

Most of the time I leave right after the morning skate, but sometimes I linger around the players’ lounge a little longer before we eat lunch. Comfortable around my boys, I find it a place to unwind and think about what the night will bring. The players’ lounge is our refuge of sorts. A place where all of us are comfortable and can relax. After a while, when a professional team is winning, restaurants, streets, and basically any public place are no longer options. When the team plane, buses, and even the locker room are cluttered with press, we have this room. For an hour-and-a-half before the games, there are no coaches, no press, no friends, no fans, and no family. It’s just us boys, the Chicago Blackhawks, turning the team into a family.

Resting my head against the side of my cubby, one thought is never far from my mind: the girl. I flip my phone around in my hand, waiting to see if any notification will pop up that she’s awake. Nothing comes. And then I’m pissed off that I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s maddening almost. Consuming in every manner.

After lunch, I reach inside my wallet and pull out the business card Detective Paulsen gave me. I dial the number and wait for him to answer. When he doesn’t, I leave a message asking if he has any leads, knowing he won’t call me back. It’s probably against whatever rules they have, seeing how I have no ties to Ami. The detective isn’t buying the girlfriend ploy the media is playing. Although, I do wonder who spilled that. Probably a nurse. What was her name? Nova? No, Nora.

Fuck. Why am I so invested in this girl? Why do I care so much?

The lack of investigation is what’s really irritating me. That’s the shit that should be all over the news. Where is this guy who did this to her? Do they have any leads yet or arrests made? And if they don’t, they’re not doing their job as far as I’m concerned. I want this fucker found and paying for what he did.

Instead of taking a nap like I usually do before a game, I head back to the hospital to check on Ami. I can’t take it any longer.

Wendy is here smiling when I walk up to the third floor. Still gloating over her night with Leo, she’s easier to talk to. I see my opening. “How’s she been doing? Any visitors besides me?”

“Actually, a guy name Blake Keldrick. He’s her dance instructor, I guess. He’s surprised to learn she has a boyfriend.”

“Oh geez.” I groan, but I recognize the name from the detective the other day. “What the fuck did he want?” is my first question. Immediately I’m picturing him in my head and putting together all the pieces. Maybe he’s the one. Maybe he came here looking for information.

Or maybe I’ve just watched too many crime shows when I can’t sleep at night.

“He’s kinda weird,” Wendy notes, her attention on her paperwork, feet propped up on her desk. There’s a moment of silence, and then Wendy cautiously asks, “Do you even know this girl?”

“She’s my girlfriend.” I snort and then focus on what she said about Blake. “Weird how?” I lean against the same desk, overly curious as to who this Blake guy is and why he’s visiting Ami. I know he knows her, but why would he need to see her?

Look at me. Already jealous of her visitors. Fucking pathetic.

Wendy shrugs. “Just weird. He seemed bothered that we wouldn’t let him in to see her. It was almost as if he had to see her. The whole situation struck me as odd. He wanted to know who brought her in, if they said anything, if she said anything, and he kept at it until Dr. Dagger asked him to leave. Then he was pissed.”

“He didn’t go in her room?” The thought that I’m the only one who has seen her reassures me. Crazy I know.

“Yep.” She winks. “No visitors allowed.”

“You must really like me.”

Wendy chuckles. “It’s not every day a Chicago Blackhawks comes to the hospital with his girlfriend.”

“I suppose not.” I wink, trying to keep on her good side. I don’t go inside Ami’s room, out of fear maybe, but it’s enough that I’m within a few feet of her room. For now.

I have a game and I don’t want to get too distracted. I end up giving Wendy my cell number and tell her to call me if there’s any change in Ami’s condition.

“Only if you tell Leo to call me.”

“Sure.” I might tell Leo Wendy is looking for a rematch, but I doubt he’ll even care. Maybe he’ll call her again, though usually he doesn’t. He and Remy are the same way. It’s like a fucking contest between Leo, Remy, and Dave to see if they can fuck every girl in Chicago. I have a feeling they’re close to that goal already.

“You promise me you’re going to give him my number?”

I nod. “Promise. As long as nobody goes in there but me.” Who the hell am I?

While we’re at it, I usually make it a rule never to get involved in Leo’s love life. It’s too complicated for me, but I’m making an exception to this one. Gotta keep the hospital staff on my side. Hmmm. Maybe I should befriend the police department while I’m at it?

Aside from all the friends I’m making here to stay on their good side, guess who I’m not going to be friends with anytime soon? Well, her dance instructor for one thing because that’s exactly who I run into when I’m leaving.

Blake. I know it’s him by the way he walks. Dancers have that way about them, especially male dancers. Or it’s because Wendy says his name.

“She’s not allowed any visitors right now, Blake,” Wendy tells him.

I smile, knowing I’d just been outside her room and could have gone in if I wanted. I stop and wait near the end of the counter, attempting to hear everything they’re saying. If I’m turning into a stalker, I might as well wear the badge with honor.

Blake groans, running his hand over his face and then sighing. “Listen, I just need to talk to her. It’ll only take a few minutes. I need to know that she’s okay. I’m worried about her.”

Talk to her? She can’t even open her eyes. What the fuck makes him think he can talk to her. I turn on my heel to say this to him when Wendy takes a more abrasive approach before I can. “You can’t see her right now, and you certainly cannot talk to her. She’s in a coma. No visitors allowed.”

I don’t know much about Blake, but it’s apparent he’s worried about something. Why else would he be pushing to see her this much? Is he trying to talk to her and warn her not to say anything? Or does he secretly have some kind of liquid in a vial and he’s going to inject it into her IV to finish the job?

Again, watched way too many crime shows.

It’s evident he’s not getting in her room because Wendy puts up a good fight. Even perfects a resting bitch face that’s rather impressive and cements the decision to give Leo her number.

Blake gives up and me being me, I decide to have a little chat with him.

“Hey, Blake?” I follow him out the doors of the emergency room and to his car.

Surprised, he turns around to face me with assessing eyes in the parking garage. “Who are you?”

Stepping forward with my hands in my pockets. I smirk, equal parts condescending and arrogant as they’re meant to be. “I’m Evan Masen.” I let my name sink in for a moment. Recognition flashes in his eyes. He knows right then I’m a hockey player. If my size and defensive edge doesn’t give it away, my name does.

“Oh.” Blake swallows. “How do you know my name?” But here’s the other interesting part. Blake knows exactly who I am, and it isn’t just off the name. He’s seen me before. Here. We passed in the hall the other night. Now that I have a face to go with the name, I realize how often he’d been coming here.

“Ami told me.” God, I’m just racking up the lies, aren’t I? Relaxing my shoulders, I ease calmness into my voice. “I’m actually the guy who brought Ami into the hospital the night she was attacked. I saved her. We were dating.” I let that part sink in for a moment, too. He swallows again, his eyes darting around the parking garage as if he’s assessing where he’s going to run to if I try to attack him. “Why do you keep coming back here?”

That’s when it gets interesting because his mood goes from I-don’t-know-you-or-what-you-want to I’m-hiding-something. He shifts his stance, fidgeting with his keys in the palm of his hand. “Ami’s staying with me. And she never mentioned she was dating you.”

Our eyes lock. He might know that I’m lying, but I don’t give a shit at this point. “I’m an athlete. She probably didn’t feel the need to draw attention to our relationship.”

“Whatever.” He snorts. “When I heard what happened, I wanted to... see if she was okay.”

I don’t get a good vibe from this guy. Do you? Something’s off, huh? Do you see it? Do you feel it? I know one thing. She’s not staying with him anymore. I won’t allow it. “She’s not okay. She’s had three surgeries on her brain and had her spleen removed. Her lung was punctured, and there isn’t an inch of skin that doesn’t have a bruise on it.” I watch his reaction closely, and then add the part I’d like to forget but want to see his reaction to. “She was brutally raped and left for dead in an alley way.”

Blake flinches at my words, his mood shifting. His brows dip together, his jaw tight. “It wasn’t me if that’s what you’re trying to imply here. I had dinner with her that night, and I told the detective that. But that’s when our night ended.”

“Why were you having dinner with her anyway?”

His mouth opens, as if he’s going to say something, and then he doesn’t. He searches for something and then the words “She lived with me” are breathed out, as though the reason they were having dinner should have been obvious.

“Okay, if you had dinner, and she lived with you, why did she leave alone? Wouldn’t you leave together?”

“I had somewhere I needed to be so I told her I’d meet her back at my place.”

“You mean somewhere with your wife? You’re married, yes?” I know he’s married because the detective let it slip the last time I spoke with him. I did my own research on Blake on the flight to Nashville.

Blake gives me a dumbfounded look and then shakes his head. “I’m not talking to you about this. None of it is your business. I don’t even know you and I’m not buying that crap on the news. She never mentioned dating a hockey player.”

I shrug. “I hope you have a lawyer.”

“I hope you do too.” His dark brown eyes give me the once-over he’d been dying to do since I approached him. It’s the once-over that screams “I know you think you’re hot shit, but you’re not.” Here’s where the interaction changes because this look, the one he’s so desperately clinging to in order to have the slightest edge against me, it’s what guys do when they feel threatened. “It’d be a shame to lose that $5.7 million contract over a rape charge.”

He plays that one to his advantage, doesn’t he?

Yeah, well, I can play, too. Rougher.

He misses the part when I strip the puck from his stick. “You own that dance studio, don’t you?” I’m not dumb. As soon as I found out about Blake Keldrick, I googled him and I looked into the Ballet Chicago. Okay, I had my PR guy find out for me, but I know everything there is to know about him. If he thinks I can’t play dirty, he’s wrong.

Blake clicks the button on his remote to unlock his car over his shoulder. “Have a nice day, Mase.”

Cute. Real fucking cute, asshole.

Every situation I’m in, my mind automatically compares it to the way I’m on the ice. Now isn’t any different. There’s one thing about my defensive skills that most underestimated. It’s a furiously frightening thing that can sneak up on you when you least expect it. When I have the puck, like I do in this situation, I do everything I can to keep it that way.

I think about that conversation with Blake all afternoon, but being surrounded by twenty thousand screaming fans has the ability to take your mind off a lot of things. Thankfully, it works for me tonight because I need the distraction. The lights, the music, the adrenaline, and aggression, it has a way of taking over.

Play is rough. It seems Nashville is looking for some redemption, and Remy and their center are at it again. Remy is never afraid to stand up and defend the line when needed. Most wingers are after the puck, but Remy... he’ll do it all.

A few penalties later, we’re rewarded with a power play. The shot is smothered by their goalie and play stops at the crease when the whistle blows for hooking, which draws the Predators into a penalty.

As it starts back up, we move back into their zone. Our right wingman is along the boards with the puck when the Predators are called for offsides again.

Forehand, backhand, you just have to put the puck where you can, and we’re doing that despite the penalties.

One of Nashville’s defensemen, also known as one of the most aggressive enforcers—guys who play strictly to fuck you up—starts getting in Leo’s face after each play. Crowds him, shoves him, just plain being a dick. Sometimes enforcers are just there to make a point, change the game.

Well, they need to know I’m not going to stand for it. Whenever they do that, I play my part and go after one of their guys because I’m not going to let them pick on Leo like that and neither is Dave. I can see him fuming beside me, ready to pounce on the enforces given the chance. Any time Dave or I are out there, they pull him, knowing what we’ll do.

I shove the defenseman at the blue line. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He smiles so I drop my gloves with the left wingman, which couldn’t have been a worse match up, but I have to make a point. You pick on our center, I’m gonna take a shot at one of your players.

I end up breaking the kid’s cheekbone and jaw. I never want to hurt guys like that, but I’m not going to let them treat Leo that way either. They took liberties with our best players, and they are held accountable. That’s the type of guy I am.

Leo passes me the puck as soon as I get on the ice after the major for fighting. “Work ’em low!” Remy shouts to my right.

From center ice, I read the goalie. I know I need to get him to move, and once he gets down, I need to get the puck up, and I can do that when needed, over and over again. If by chance I’m able to slide the puck in, I always have the ability to get creative.

Unfortunately, their defenseman is all over me, so I pass to Leo and then Remy, and I’m freed up in position. Moving the puck, I sweep around the back of the net, flip it up, and stuff in the top side to tie the game.

Fuck yeah!

We’re up by one, leading into the third period, when it goes to shit. It’s a good, fast game that night, and it seems the linesmen decide they will stop looking. That’s when they start with the shitty calls. I get called for roughing when I shove their center for mouthing off. Then, when he keeps it up, I nail him against the boards a little rougher than necessary, and he’s out for revenge after that.

“Knock that shit off.” Duane’s eyes are on the ice and warning Remy and I not to pay retribution on the line. The answer is always a distinct “No! Play the fucking game. They push, you push right back. Defend that blue line, boys!”

“He never lets us have any fun,” Remy adds, looking at the ice with disappointment.

I smile but don’t say anything.

It doesn’t end there either. Nashville’s center uses me to draw a penalty and creates a power play. Then, to piss me off, he skates up to me, chirps, and starts shit. I drop my gloves, and the center covers up like a fucking pussy. He knows what he’s doing.

“Fucking pussy,” I yell at him, knowing what happens in situations like this. I’m slapped with a penalty because the center isn’t allowed to fight me. Under no circumstances can he drop gloves with me. His job is to draw a penalty. And he does. Every fucking time. “You did that shit on purpose!”

He smiles. “You know the game, bitch.”

He’s right. I do, and I’ve done it myself, but it doesn’t stop me from being pissed off.

So I sit in the box most of the second period while they work up the ice. Do I look happy? Not a fucking chance.

Back on the ice, fuming, I watch Remy set up the play off the blue line, when that same defenseman I’d been pushing around earlier comes out of nowhere and slams me so hard into the boards the glass shatters. He isn’t gonna fight me, but Jesus Christ did he fuck me when I wasn’t looking.

When I say I’m rocked on that hit, I mean I’m fucking rocked. I see stars and I think my ribs punctured my stomach. They don’t, obviously, but it’s enough that I sit on the bench again wondering what day it is.

I blink, trying to focus and throw up in a trash can next to the bench.

“Fuck, Mase, did you let him come in your mouth, too? Because he fucked you,” Leo says, shaking his head as we enter the locker room after winning against the Predators by one point.

Leo, he’s a nasty fucker most days, but I don’t care. I took such a rock on that play, I’m seeing double. I actually welcome the slight concussion because for the first time in days, I’m not thinking.

I’m not obsessing about a girl whose eye color I’ve never seen.

I’m not constantly looking at everyone in the city wondering what they know.

Back in Chicago that night, the thrill of the victory brings excitement with it, and I’m finally feeling like I can breathe and not think of Ami. Or maybe it’s the concussion, I don’t know. Maybe because I’m out with the guys, but either way, it’s a welcomed distraction.

And did I mention I’m surrounded by beautiful women? I am. Leaving with women is always easy when you’re underage and in a bar full of the Chicago Blackhawks. All I have to do is make conversation, smile, and they’re willing to leave with me. Believe it or not, I don’t take many back to my place. It’s never good if they find out where you live.

So I take her back to her place. My mind is still on the game, the excitement of the win, and the girl unzipping my pants. We’re naked pretty quick, still up against her door, when she unwraps her legs, stands, and leads me to her room.

I know exactly where this is heading.

Get your shit together, pussy.

Hovering over the girl on her bed, ready for action, that’s when a feeling of dread creeps in as I stare into her blue eyes. Anxiety, hopelessness, and anger rushes back. My vision goes gray around the edges. Hell, it’s blurry at this point. Probably from the concussion, but also, I’m fucked up over this girl. It’s everything I can do not to gasp at the memory of my bloody clothes on the floor and then Ami’s body in the snow.

This isn’t happening. When did I turn into this guy?

I close my eyes just to try and breathe, but it’s like there’s no air in the room. And like a total fucking pussy, I start hyperventilating because I’m thinking of Ami and what she went through. My mind goes straight to what Ami must have seen with the guy hovering over her while she was brutally attacked.

Could she see him hovering over her like this? Did she beg him not to do it?

“Mase? What’s wrong?” I stare at the girl underneath me, her blonde flowing hair wrapped around my hand, and I think it could have been like that for Ami.

With quick, short breaths, I pull away from the girl, but my heart won’t calm down. It’s beating a million miles an hour. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Believe me when I say I feel like absolute shit for saying that. I want to shake myself and say, “Get yourself together,” but I can’t.

“Oh.” The girl looks up at me with tears in her eyes. She wanted this. Being with me like this was probably something she would have remembered long after I forgot her name, which I didn’t get, but whatever. “Is it something I did?”

“It’s not you, honey,” I say, trying to convey that it’s not her at all. This is my own shit. I swallow, my hands shaking as another image plagues me, the one of Ami when I left the hospital the other night. Bruised, swollen… lifeless.

“I took a hard hit tonight. I think I’m just feeling it now.” It’s not all a lie so I’m going with it. I shake my head and clear my throat. “I need to get out of here.”

Sitting back on my heels, I move away, reaching for my clothes. When I get to the door, I hesitate. I don’t want this girl thinking it’s something she did. Running my hands through my hair, I give her a smile and write my number on a piece of mail she has on the counter. My actual fucking cell phone number that maybe four people have in the city. “Maybe some other time.”

She nods, her eyes hopeful as she holds a sheet up over her bare chest. “Okay, some other time.”

As soon as I get outside, nausea rolls through me. Any other time I know the girl in that bed would have been exactly what I needed after the win, and maybe even the next morning. But she reminds me too much of Ami. She has blonde hair and a tiny body, and I lost it. I had to leave.

My problem is, I keep thinking about what Ami went through, what she felt, over and over again. She’s in my zone whether I want to admit it or not.