Delayed Penalty by Shey Stahl
7. Slashing
A minor penalty. This occurs when a player swings his stick hard at an opponent, whether or not contact is made – if injury is caused, it becomes a major penalty and a game misconduct.
Game 50 – Ottawa Senators
End of January
Evan
Remember when I was cranky about not being able to see Ami?
It’s not getting better any time soon.
We’re heading into a six-game road trip, and fuck if I’m irritable about that. I still haven’t told Ami I’m a hockey player, but I did tell her work was taking me out of town. I’m not sure why I haven’t told her I’m a hockey player either. Maybe because I like that she doesn’t know me as Evan Masen the Chicago Blackhawk. She knows me as Evan. Or Mase. Or maybe Blake gave me away. I don’t know and I didn’t ask.
I know one thing. Up until now, I’ve always loved road trips and having games every night. Now, they take me away from Ami and that sucks.
That game with the Senators is awful by the way. And it’s not just me and my shitty attitude. The whole team is off. We’re constantly fucking up. No one is focused and I’m sure you can imagine how Coach feels about that one. He’s livid.
It’s not even mistakes. It’s downright stupidity on our part.
Like Leo. He’s usually 100 percent every game and tonight, he pummels our new kid up from the minors for no reason other than the kid got in his way and Leo isn’t paying attention. In turn, the kid falls into the boards and breaks his damn nose. Blood all over the place.
“Christ Almighty, this is awful,” Leo says, holding a towel to his face as we scoot down the bench, all of us with battle wounds. “Just fucking kill me now.”
I laugh, scooting over more. “Looks like Tanner wants to.” I nod toward Ottawa’s center who absolutely hates Leo. A hockey rink is only a two hundred by eighty space, and the game tonight is one chip shot after another and fast aggressive play by both teams. Only problem is we’re taking it out on our own team too.
Shelby and Ryan both run into the new kid four fucking times, and we’re all on the same team. The thing is none of us are playing well, and the newbie isn’t helping. He’s constantly offsides and doesn’t seem to get the concept of a shift. One of us will have to go out there and physically bring him back or he just skates around. He probably isn’t that bad, but I don’t like him.
Actually, I don’t like anyone at the moment.
Out of pure boredom and to take the attention off how bad we’re playing, Leo and I turn our attention to the Senators’ left wing.
Chirping, or beaking as some call it, is generally meant to get under the opposing team’s skin. You learn that shit real young too. And you say just about anything to offend them from skill level to playing style or even getting personal. It’s a way of spinning the game by intimidation if needed.
Hockey, it’s a game of intimidation, and most of the time, when you see the players in each other’s faces and you’re wondering what they’re saying to one another, that’s exactly what we’re doing, intimidating the other guy, only more explicit and with descriptive language.
We do anything to fuck with their head, even if that means talking shit about wives and girlfriends to our advantage. Remy is notorious for it. Actually, that dude is the king of it. Nearly everything that comes out of Leo or Remy on the ice has me laughing, but I don’t like to bring family into it. They do. To me that’s drawing the line. If someone talks shit about my family, they know they have me. I’ll drop gloves in a heartbeat. That’s when I get pissed.
That left winger from Ottawa, he takes it too far.
“How’s your sister, Mase? Mind if I take her for a ride again next time I’m in Pittsburg?”
The “again” part gets me. I know for a fact he didn’t fuck my sister. She’s fifteen and too good for a chump like him.
I don’t say anything and pummel his ass right then and there.
And I sit the rest of the game in the penalty box and get slapped not only with a fighting penalty but intent to injure, roughing, slashing, and high sticking, all in the same play.
Told you it’s a shit night.
The best time is in the penalty box with Remy. He’s called for roughing and joins me.
“Room for me in here?” he teases, throwing himself onto the bench next to me.
“Always, baby,” I tease back and squirt water at the glass when a kid next to me starts beating on it with his fists and screaming my name.
“God, this game sucks.” He gestures to center ice where that same left winger is tormenting Leo now. “What a fucking pussy. I didn’t see the hit. What happened?”
“No idea. Come on, boys! Get on ’em!” I yell, hitting my stick on the glass.
Remy swipes a towel over his face, a water bottle in his hand now. He sprays a stream in his mouth, then his face. “Is it me, or did they turn on the fuckin’ heat full blown in this goddamn place?”
“Probably.” He’s right. It’s really hot in here tonight. I’m surprised the ice isn’t melting.
Remy slaps his hand to his chest. “I’ve got the worst heartburn right now. You got tums?”
I laugh, keeping an eye on the left winger. “Yeah, let me check my pockets.” Groaning, I smack my stick against the boards when the winger skates by. “Go back to the minors, ya pussy!”
Naturally, that left winger makes a jerking off gesture my way.
“That was rude,” he notes, laughing. “You should teach him respect.” Remy nudges me. “Oh, hey. How’s the girl?”
I shrug, the reminder catching me off guard. She’s never far from my mind, but when I’m on the ice, I try to forget. “She’s awake,” I tell him. “But still in the hospital.”
“Nice, man.”
Remy’s time is up by then and I’m left alone in the box, thinking of her.
Always.
Consuming me when I least expect it. I want to know her, spend hours just looking at her beautiful face, and most of all, be there for her when no one else is.
Game 54 – San Jose Sharks
By the time we’re in San Jose, Leo and I are still fucking with the new kid brought up from the minors. What else are we going to fill our time with? Nothing. Exactly. The kid, his name is Terry and we called him Sherry Terry just piss him off. His coordination isn’t improving, and I have a distinct feeling the kid will be back in the minors before we get home. It doesn’t stop us from fucking with him. When you’re on the road for six games straight, you have to get your fun where you can.
“Hey, man.” I skate by, tapping my stick against his head. He turns and looks around, his wide eyes still glossy from last night when we got him drunk. “Where’s your stick? You need that, bud.” His stick is on the ice again, and he stumbles, trying to stop it from sliding.
I take mine between my legs and stroke it once. Swinging up the left side of the rink, a few of the Sharks’ fans are standing near the glass smiling at us. I give a tip of my head to the girls when they start screaming as I’m stroking my stick. They may not have liked our team, but they love that shit. To add to the fire, I move my stick and thrust it once or twice.
I hear a chuckle from behind and Leo’s heavy breathing as he catches up to us. He skates by and then backward, winking at Terry, and drops to his knees as if he’s taking my stick in his mouth. Yep. He did that. On national TV. We’re inappropriate like that.
“Orting, Mase! Knock that shit off!” Coach screams at us, the veins in his neck popping out again. “What the fuck is wrong with those two?” he asks, mostly to himself.
Our trainer is laughing beside him.
Leo and I skate away from him, laughing as well. At least we got some entertainment out of it and we win the game.
Sure enough, when we get back to Chicago, Sherry Terry is gone.
Me? I’m fucking ecstatic. Not because I didn’t like Terry much, but I can’t wait to see Ami. I haven’t seen her in two fucking weeks. But first, I need a nap.
We get home early Sunday morning, and I crash as soon as my head hits my pillow. I don’t wake up until noon the next day.
First thing I do, well, besides eat? I head to the hospital to see Ami.
I see Wendy outside her room charting. She looks up when I walk by. “How’s my girl doing today?” She knows I’m referring to Ami and even I can’t believe I just said that.
Wendy smiles. “She’s okay. We’re trying out some new anti-nausea medication. She’s having headaches.”
“That’s probably pretty normal, huh?”
“Yeah, most of the time people with a brain injury will have them for months, if not years. Dizziness is another aspect of it.”
Pain hits my chest. I know she has a long road to recovery here but witnessing it firsthand is hard. I want to help her, but there’s not much I can do for her.
When I walk in, Ami does a double take, and I realize what I must look like after those brutal six games. I look like hell. My face is still swollen after Matzy and I went at it again a week ago, and now there are ten stitches right above my eye from Thursday’s game against the Sharks when I decided to go at it with a defender twice my size. Bad idea on my part but you know, sometimes you do what you need to do.
Wearing a hat doesn’t shield the damage as much as I hoped it would. Ami notices right away. I don’t even care what I look like though. I just want to be in the same room with her. “Miss me?” I ask, stepping closer.
“Whoa, big guy, what happened to your face?” she asks, fighting the medications the nurse has just given her. I can tell my visit will be short tonight, but she does seem to perk up when she notices I have food with me. “And yes, I missed you. Everyone in here sucks. Aside from Wendy.”
My hand instinctively moves to touch the purplish bruise I’m sure is forming. I set the bag of food on the table beside her bed. “I got in a fight.”
Her brow furrows, and there’s a second there when I think, fuck, what if she’s scared of me now, given what happened to her?
But she surprises me and raises her eyebrows. “Wow, how’s the other guy doing?”
I laugh, taking out the shi zhi chicken I got on the way over here. Ami eyes the box and gives a half smile. “You want some of this, don’t you?” I tease, holding the fork out.
Ami leans forward, scanning the door for the nurses who are constantly after her to eat good, and then takes the bite.
I have never wanted to be a fork more in my life than I do right now.
“Good, eh?”
Her cheeks turn the cutest pink. “You have no idea. This food in here is shit.”
Lying back against the pillows, she folds her hands over her lap. I watch her for a moment, so fucking happy to be back in the same room as her, and then hand her the rest of the takeout box. “Here, enjoy.”
She blinks slowly, chewing on her lip. “What are you going to eat?”
“I got more.” I hold up the Szechwan chicken I was sure had too much kick for her. For a few minutes, we eat in silence.
“Really, though, what happened to your face?” I don’t know all her facial expressions yet, but this one looks like concern to me. She cares for me. “Did you really get into a fight?”
“Yeah.” I nod, setting the chicken aside.
“How’s the other guy?”
“He’s fine, but I got in a few licks too.” I smirk, remembering the look on our team physician’s face as he tried to stitch me up. “How are you feeling tonight? I see they took your bandage off.”
She touches the bubbled scar on the side of head. “Better now...” She tips the empty box my way. Impressive. She ate all of it. I take the box and set it next to mine, still watching her. “At least I look better than you.”
“That you do.” I don’t know what Ami looked like before the accident, but color is finally taking over the pasty complexion she usually has. Her cheeks are filling out, warmth returning, and the bruises finally gone.
Ami shifts toward me, as though she has no intention of going to sleep any time soon. “So, Evan, what did you do that you got in a fight?”
I love the way my name sounds on her lips, but more importantly, I’m dying to hear her call me Mase. I almost correct her and beg for the word to come. Instead, I settle on something more simple. An answer to her question. “Work.”
“What do you do that has you looking like this?” Her eyes widen. “Hey, why were you gone so long? I was beginning to think I’d have to friend the smelly doctor.”
Her memory isn’t the greatest. I did tell her I was leaving for work, but I’m also surprised nobody has told her I’m a hockey player. I thought for sure that douche of a doctor would have told her. Or the financial aid department when I secretly paid off Ami’s medical bills last week. “I’m a hockey player. I was on a six-game road trip these last two weeks.” And then I wait and let the words sink in.
She blinks at me, slowly. Is she freaked out? I can’t tell. More blinks follow before she finally asks, “Like in the NHL?” I nod and she grins. “Holy crap. That’s awesome. I’ve never met a hockey player before. Who do you play for?”
“Chicago Blackhawks.”
“What number are you?”
That one I hesitate with. I’m the same number as her brother would have been, and I don’t want to bring her down. Not tonight. She waits, though, so I finally cave. “Number five.”
The pink returns to her cheeks. “I had a feeling you were. Wow. I can’t believe a hockey player saved my life.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why is that so hard to believe?”
“I don’t know. I guess maybe you hear about professional athletes on TV but never think of meeting them in person or having a personal encounter with them.”
Personal? Honey, I saw you naked already. But… I don’t say that.
We continue to talk, our conversations ranging from music we both like, to movies, to restaurants in Chicago. She’d only been here three weeks before the attack but had fallen in love with a few restaurants, most of which are my favorites too. I make mental notes of a few, wanting to sneak in take-out for her again.
Then we talk about hobbies, most of which I eat up even though mine consist of hockey, hockey, and well, hockey.
“What drew you to ballet?”
Her eyes fucking twinkle, I swear. Straight up stars and shine in her cheeks at the mention of ballet. “I never grew out of wanting to be a princess. When I was three, I wore a princess crown for a year straight. Never took it off.”
I want to dig deeper for her interests and bathe in every word she tells me. Captivated by the presence of her, I lean in, listening intently. “Like ever?”
“Nope. I took the princess gig serious. If I was gonna be one, I had to play the part.”
I grin, knowing our personalities are so similar. Once I had a hockey stick, I tried to carry it everywhere with me. Going to the grocery store? Yep. Needed my stick. I might have to defend myself, or my mom, and you better be damn sure I took that shit seriously. Also, you never knew when there’d be a rock in need of a slap shot. “So when did you finally take it off?”
“Oh, I’m not sure. I do remember my brother broke it. He was such a butthead back then. Anyway, I got my first pair of ballet slippers for my birthday. Probably a peace offering from him for breaking my princess crown.”
“So that led you to ballet here?”
“Yep. I knew I wanted to dance and after my family died, I thought you know, I’m going for my chance. I might not ever get it again. So I sold my parents’ house they left me and used the money to move here. I got a job within a few days at the ballet studio.”
“That’s dedication,” I tell her. “Most would have given up.”
“It’s not like I want to do it as a profession.” She pauses, looking over at me. “I just love to dance and working there allowed me to do that. It’s therapeutic almost. I would actually never consider doing it for a career. It’s what relaxes me. Like yoga.”
I can definitely understand that. Every hockey player I know has something other than hockey that relaxes them. Leo, he loves to ride his motorcycle. Unfortunately for him, he has limitations because of his contract with the Blackhawks. Our contract prohibits us from doing anything dangerous. That includes riding street bikes.
Remy, he likes to fight—in a game, in a bar—he doesn’t care where it happens as long as he gets relief from it.
Me? I work out.
It’s sometime after that conversation about ballet when Ami’s voice drops and the flush returns. “Do you have a girlfriend? I can’t imagine she’d be too happy with you coming here every day.”
“I do. You,” I say, winking.
She laughs. “No, I mean a real one.”
My throat tightens a bit, for reasons I don’t know. I also don’t understand the twinge of pride I have when I say, “No, no girlfriend.” Clearing my throat, I wink and ask, “What about you? Any boyfriends I need to worry about coming in here?”
“Besides you?” she laughs.
“Right. Besides me.” Suddenly I’m very intent on the television, unable to make eye contact with her. I don’t know why I asked that fucking question. Stupidity again. She already told me about her deal in Oregon with her last boyfriend.
“No, you’re safe,” she says dryly. “And if I do have a boyfriend and I’m just forgetting him, I’m breaking up with him because he hasn’t come to see me once.”
“Right?” I start laughing. “What a jerk. You should totally break up with him, if you have one, that is.”
“I don’t think I have one after Josh, and I kinda swore off them after that. He left after my family... well, you know. He was a pussy. When I got here, I immediately started working at Ballet Chicago and then met Blake, the owner, and he let me stay with him and his wife. I had dinner with him that night.”
I knew that already, but the way she repeats it is like she’s remembering something new about the night.
I’m not expecting it to happen, but she tears up somewhere in all that and tears roll down her cheeks and along the subtle curve of her jaw.
“Hey,” I say quietly, leaning forward to touch her hand. Her fingers curl around mine and before I know it, we’re holding hands. “I’m sorry I brought that up. Let’s talk about something else.”
She brushes tears away with her other hand and lets go of mine in the process. “Tell me about hockey. Do you get along with your teammates?”
“Most of them,” I tease and then give her a feel for the sport. Choosing my words carefully, I explain why I love it through the sights, smells, actions, and more importantly, the heart that goes into the sport. Through all my memories and stories about my life, she listens intently, smiling. “Leo is our captain and my best friend. Remy, Dave, Cage… Travis, we’re the starting line so we’re together the most.”
“So like, you have to be friends?”
“No, not like that, but you have to form a unity. It’s the only way you can go out there and no matter what, have the others’ back.”
She points to the stitches above my eyebrow. “Where were they on that one?”
The corners of my lips quirk. “I was saving Leo’s ass on that one.”
“Ah, I see. You’re a protector.”
My gaze softens and we lock eyes. “I suppose I am.”
“I—” She pauses, as if she’s searching for what to say. “I’m thankful you were mine that night.”
I want to say me too, but I don’t. The words freeze up in my throat and I smile.
When I leave that night, I wait until she’s asleep. As my luck would have it, Detective Paulsen is there in the lobby on another case, and I stop to talk to him.
“Listen.” I pause, annoyed at the look he gives me like I’m just some kid. I am some kid but damn it, this is important and their lack of interest in finding this guy is irritating. “Have you questioned her dance instructor?”
Paulsen raises an eyebrow. “Blake Keldrick?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I’m trying to play dumb. And I don’t think it’s working in the slightest.
“Yes, he’s the dance instructor at Ballet Chicago. He was the last person she was spotted with. We brought him into custody the next day and questioned but he was released. His DNA wasn’t a match, and his story for the evening matched the witness reports.”
“Yeah, I know all that already. You told me. What I want to know is do you believe him?”
Now I’ve pissed him off. “I have no reason not to.” The expression on his face is accusing. As if he thinks it’s me. He knows I’m not because I gave my DNA the very next day to clear it up and was ruled not a match. Clearly.
“Do you have any other leads?”
“Evan, this is really none of your business,” Paulsen says, shifting his stance. Okay, well, maybe he’s not going to give me a damn thing. “I’m not sure the attachment you have to this girl is healthy. She’s had something horrible happen to her. There’s no sense in making matters worse for her.”
Making matters worse? How the fuck am I doing that? “So having the douche who hurt her on the streets is okay with you?” Defensive, I step forward, my chest inches from his, and his eyes flicker with the slightest bit of intimidation for me. “Tell me, Paulsen, how do you sleep at night knowing there are guys like that walking the streets? Do you feel safe having your wife and daughter home alone without you there if guys like this asshole are out there?” I don’t know, but by the instant annoyance in his face, I think I overstepped on that one.
“Don’t make this personal, Evan.” He sighs. “That’s the last thing Ami needs right now. I’m doing my job. These cases take time. I know it’s not happening at the speed you’d like, but it’s under investigation.”
I don’t appreciate his tone. I want to teach him a fucking lesson about telling a hockey player not to make something personal, but I’ve learned my lesson about fighting outside the rink thanks to Remy. It can get you in a lot of fucking trouble and not worth the legal troubles. But I am going to set him straight. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s not personal. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Could have fooled me,” he snaps, getting arrogant. “You seem awfully attached to her.”
I want to punch a cop. I really want to punch a cop.
Don’t punch a cop. Do not punch a cop.
I don’t punch the cop. I want to be allowed back in this hospital, and I think for sure he won’t allow it if I hit him.
“I’ll say it again, Evan.” Paulsen leans in. “We’re doing what we can. We’re doing our job. I suggest you let us. You do yours by being there for her and helping her through it like I know you can.”
Okay, I don’t want to hit him anymore. I blow out a breath. “Let me know if you hear anything.”
He nods. “I will.”
I think he’s lying, don’t you?
I don’t know why, but I can’t understand why the guy hasn’t been caught yet. I also know, and try to remember, this happens all the time. Ami isn’t the first girl who has been raped, and she certainly won’t be the last, sadly.
Can I do what he said though? Be there for her?
