Cage's Misconduct (NHL Scorpions #3)

by Nikki Worrell

  Kelly was an ice girl. She was a curvy ice girl, but still had to watch her figure even when she was starving. Her plate had a cheesesteak without the roll and some pickles. Me? I decided I wasn’t real hungry, which believe me, is rare. I wanted Cage to win this game so much I didn’t think I could stomach eating. My appetite was sitting in the background. My nerves were a mess. And that’s not even mentioning the whole hand-on-his-junk thing. I stuck with a piece of dry ham and cheese sub, and a Coke Zero.

  The second period was almost a carbon copy of the first. Cage had now denied twenty-eight potential goals. The Hawks were peppering him with shots every chance they got. They knew it was his first game back and were desperately trying to tire him out and cause him to get sloppy, but he was having none of it. The more shots they fired at him, the more focused he seemed to become.

  The Scorpions, on the other hand, were not peppering the Hawk’s goalie with shots. They only had fourteen shots on the board. It wasn’t enough. Chicago had double that amount. It was unacceptable. They were hanging their goalie out to dry. Cage couldn’t win the game if they didn’t score.

  My calm was shattered as the third period started. We needed to score. Just one goal would make all the difference, but it wasn’t looking good.

  Dubuis picked up a perfectly timed long pass coming out of the penalty box, and it was just him and Cage. One on one. Mano y mano. He skated left, then right. He went around Cage’s net, which was his crucial mistake. We got lucky. He took too long to get his shot off, and Matty was there to strip the puck away from him in the nick of time. Mere seconds after we got control of the puck, the buzzer sounded, marking the end of regulation time. We were going into overtime in the seventh game of the series. Pretty fucking intense.

  Overtime. It was either your best friend or your worst enemy. Actually, it was both.

  ***

  Cage

  Overtime. My first game back and we were in overtime. In the last game of the series. And my team wasn’t shooting the fucking puck. And I couldn’t say anything. It was too crucial and my mouth had a mind of its own. So there I was, waiting for coach to rip into them, and then I’d show my support of the team even though what I wanted to do was slap every one of them in the head.

  Coach was deceptively quiet. We all knew him enough to know this was worse than him yelling at us. “Anyone want to explain why you’re sitting back on your heels for sixty minutes of play?” He waved his hands around the room, pointing to the playoff signs posted everywhere. “This, uh, not exciting enough for you? Need to test your mettle further by waiting until overtime to get it together? Because let me tell you something. I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to the play in the East, but Pittsburgh certainly turned their playoff run around. They’re going to win their series tonight. You mark my words. And they’re in the zone. But you know what? That might not be a problem for you.” Finally losing his cool, his voice broke and could be heard around the arena. “Because you can’t get one fucking puck in the net. Or can you? I thought you could. Am I wrong?”

  “No, Coach.”

  “We can do it.”

  “We’ll get it in there, Coach.”

  “Good. Then get the fuck out there and show me!” He looked at Keith and nodded. “They’re all yours.”

  “Thanks, Coach.” Keith turned to the room and looked at each and every one of us. “One thing he forgot to mention. I know we play as a team, and we should. We need to, but does anyone see what we’re putting Cage through tonight? He’s had to stand on his fucking head to keep us in the game and it’s not fair. You know he’s still busted up after the accident and we’re making him work way too hard tonight. I’m calling myself out, too. So fuck the last sixty minutes. They’re gone. If you get the puck, and you have even a sliver of an opening, take it.” He looked around again, mostly at the forwards that time around. “And you better make goddamn sure there’s coverage for a rebound. Get your asses to the net. We have to crash the net. But watch the penalties.”

  He wasn’t saying anything they didn’t already know, but it needed to be said anyway. That’s just the way it was. So we’d see how it went.

  We got back out onto the ice and it began. Unfortunately, we still weren’t getting any shots off. At least there weren’t any shootouts in the playoffs. That would have truly been the game on my shoulders. After fifteen minutes of play, Coach called a timeout.

  “Have you been tracking the shots, guys? No? Chicago has four and you have, huh, none. Go shoot the goddamn puck! I don’t care anymore who’s at the net. Shoot the puck. This is it. You can do it. I know you can, so go fucking do it!” Not much of a time out, but he got his point across—again.

  Things got interesting after that. I was frustrated beyond belief, and being a goalie, I didn’t have much of an outlet for it, but with three minutes left in the first overtime period, the Hextall came out in me. I loved watching reels of Hextall fighting. It wasn’t a common thing for a goalie—for good reason, but I wasn’t about to dwell on that.

  Believe it or not, it was Rush who had the puck. He did everything right. He made a clean check on Kruger and took the puck from him. Our other guys kept theirs busy and gave Rush a chance to get a shot off—finally. But at the last second, Chicago’s defenseman deliberately kicked his foot out, sweeping Rush off his feet in a painful slew foot. Rush went down hard and slammed his head on the ice. To add insult to injury, his helmet flew off a split second before his head hit, and he wasn’t getting up.

  In the midst of all of this going down, their goalie kicked Rush’s skate after he was already down. Our guys went after theirs, but of course no one was messing with the goalie since the little prick skated away.

  In my defense, I looked over to my coach for the go ahead. I’d already thrown off my mask when I heard him yell, “Go get him!” For our coach to say something like that, I knew his frustration had hit an all-time high. He would be fined for such a comment, but he sure didn’t look like he gave a shit.

  I dropped my glove, blocker and stick on my long trek down the ice. To my delight, it was Logan who was back in goal. I hated that fucker. No particular reason, I just did. Call me Cage.

  “What the fuck was that, Logan?” I didn’t bother letting him answer. I ripped his helmet off and hit him square in the face. Some later said it was a sucker punch. Yeah? Well too fucking bad. This was hockey, not ceramics.

  He came at me with all he had, which wasn’t much. He wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t a badass at all. But I was. Yeah, I was. I was the baddest fucker of them all. At least I felt like it in that moment.

  I hit him again, and down he went. “Are you fucking kidding me, Logan? Get the fuck up, you little pussy!” I stood there waiting for him to get up, but he actually laid there on the ice and shook his head no. So I kicked him. Don’t worry; I made sure I hit padding. I wasn’t that much of an asshole.

  Another Blackhawk took exception to my beat down on Logan. He was a massive man—there was no way I could take him, but I was sure going to try.

  His first hit landed directly on my cracked ribs. Mother fucker, did that hurt, but I turned the pain into rage and got in a couple of good hits to his cheekbone and chin before he landed a solid right to my temple. I saw stars, but dammit, I was not going down.

  I yelled as I pushed off on my skates to get some momentum going to use as some force behind my fist. I connected with his neck in a bit of a miscalculation, but it gave me some time to recoup as he tried to catch his breath from that hit. And being the idiot that I was, I allowed him those few precious seconds. His next hit felt like a goddamn sledgehammer, and I went down like a five-cent whore. Holy fuck, that hurt.

  I was man enough to admit when I’d been bested, just not smart enough to stay down. I think I was the luckiest son of a bitch out there when the ref got between us, and I was able to skate off with my pride somewhat intact. “We can finish that later.” I laughed to myself at my own words. Who was I kidding? But hell, I
was still a badass.

  After a five-minute break, which the refs needed to assess the myriad of penalties, we were back at it. Rush had been taken off the ice under his own power, but with the help of not only our trainer but Chicago’s also. We were rivals, obviously, but when it came to the health of the players, we worked on the same team.

  Instead of having the desired effect of bringing our team together, our antics left us flatter than we were before. It wasn’t long at all before Chicago’s captain got one by me, and the game was over—as was our season.

  Chapter 22

  I barely even acknowledged Karen’s text to me after the game last night. She’d said all the right things, and I knew she meant well, but I was pissed. Upset. Depressed. Pissed. I already said pissed, didn’t I? Yeah, well I was really pissed. I’d get over it. I always did, but it was best I had a little time to myself to be an ass in private.

  The coach had pulled me aside after most of the other players had left to tell me what a great job I did. I knew I did. I couldn’t have done any better. Well, yeah, I guess I could have saved that last shot, but I wasn’t perfect. Pretty damn close last night, though. I think the final shots on goal were thirty-five for Chicago and sixteen for us. So yeah, I felt good about my play.

  I was cleaning out my locker when he came up to me. I liked to take everything home after my last game of the season. Especially my sticks. When they weren’t lined up in our secure locker room, my sticks were in my bedroom. My lucky stick of the season, if it was still in one piece, got a special spot by itself in a corner of the living room that didn’t see sunlight. Yeah, another ritual. I was just trying to figure out how I was going to fit everything into my Beemer when I remembered I didn’t have it anymore. I really needed to buy a new car.

  “Hey, Booker.”

  “Hey, Coach. Crappy ending, huh?”

  “Pretty much. But I didn’t come over here to talk about that shit storm, per se. I really just wanted to tell you what a great job you did tonight. I know you’re not one hundred percent healthy. You gave me everything you had and then some. Thanks, kid.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “It’s more than that. It’s your passion. You have something really great, Cage. You have natural ability. It’s a gift that you’ve honed all your life, I’d imagine. If you could just rein in that temper of yours, you’d be the perfect hockey player.” He laughed at his own words. He’d never had a problem with my attitude. All goalies have attitude. It only hindered me seriously once or twice a season.

  “Yeah, I know. I don’t think I’m going to change all that much now though, do you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve seen a difference in you lately. Not sure if it’s age or Jody’s sister.”

  Everyone knew about my chumming up with Karen. It was hard to keep anything secret in such a tight knit group, but especially when the girl in question was a former teammate’s sister. And hot as hell. Although they should all be keeping their eyes to themselves.

  “Maybe a bit of both.”

  “Maybe, son. Just maybe. Have a good summer. I’m sure you’ll hear from me.”

  Well, that sucked. I wasn’t sure if he meant anything by it, but we usually only heard from the coaches if there was an event or if you were being traded. Players really didn’t hang out with coaches unless it was for a charity event. I wasn’t asked to partake in any of them—shocking, I know.

  I gathered my things and headed home. On the way I picked up a bottle of Stoly to make our loss a bit easier to swallow.

  ***

  I didn’t wake up until almost noon the next day. I had three missed texts from Karen and my mom. I assured my mother I was okay via text, but called Karen to talk to her in person.

  “Hi, Cage.”

  “Hi. Sorry I wasn’t very conversational last night. And I actually just got up a while ago.”

  “It’s okay. I’m really sorry you guys lost last night. You know you were incredible in goal though, right?”

  I really didn’t feel like talking about it anymore. It was done. Time to move on. “Yeah, thanks. How are you feeling?”

  She laughed. “Got it. Subject change. I’m feeling better every day now. I’m going to take a walk on the beach in a little while. I want to work on getting some stamina back.”

  “That’s a great idea. I’ve got a vested interest in your recovery remember.”

  I didn’t miss her intake of breath. “You do?”

  “Oh come on. I know you didn’t forget already. You can’t tease me and get away with it, Karen. We’re past that point. I will have you.”

  “You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

  I knew she was just yanking my chain. She was ready to push our relationship to the next level before the accident and she was still ready—her body just pulled a fast one on us—or rather a two ton pickup did. “I am. But until you’re ready, I’ll have to be content with talking to you. How’s your mom doing? Any more sightseeing for her?”

  “She’s going to Tijuana today with Jody. She’s leaving for home on Sunday and hasn’t visited with Jody too much. Besides, she figured she has the passport, she might as well use it. And she wants to buy some vanilla. Apparently theirs is the best.”

  “Lacey and the baby aren’t going?”

  “No. Lacey won’t take the baby to Mexico. She’s afraid she’ll pick up some weird disease or something. It’s just Mom and Jody. They’re going to pick me up on their way home and we’re all having dinner at Jody’s.”

  “That’s good. It’ll get you out of the house for a while.” I was sure anything was good that would get her out of the house.

  “I like getting out of the house. Even if it’s only for a little while. What are you going to be doing?”

  “I’m still wallowing in self pity. It takes me a couple of days to get past it. So for today, I’ll mope around and do mundane things like laundry. But tomorrow I have an appointment with my agent in San Francisco. He’s up there talking to a new recruit he’s thinking of working with. I figured I could use a couple of days to get away from here, so I’m flying up there tomorrow morning. I’ll be back home Sunday.” I wondered how she’d feel about my leaving for a few days. I was hoping she’d miss me.

  “Oh. I’ll miss you. It might be good to get away for a couple of days, though. You can go see the seals on the wharf. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  “I’ll take you there. We could go for a weekend or something.”

  “That would be fun. We’ll see how long it is until I’m really ready to be out and about. I’m running out of time here.”

  Didn’t I know it. I hated thinking about her leaving. We only had two and a half months left, I think. Not nearly long enough. “I know. I wish you’d stay.”

  “I can’t. There’s no viable way.”

  She was wrong, and she knew it. “Yes there is. Marry me. You really should think about it. I know marriage is a big deal, really. But we could just kind of do things backward, you know?”

  “Backward?”

  “Yeah. Get married first. Continue to get to know each other, and then who knows? You might come to love me in the end.”

  “I already do love you, Cage. I care about you a lot.”

  This was getting me nowhere. “Yes, I know, but that’s not the kind of love I mean and you know it.”

  “Don’t you think we’re too young?”

  I knew she meant me specifically, and if she had asked me that about six months ago, I would have yes without any hesitation. But it wasn’t six months ago, and I could safely say that if she’d take it, I’d hand over my heart in a …well, a heartbeat. If I hadn’t already, which I kind of think I had. “No. No I don’t. At least I’m not. Is that the issue for you?”

  “No! The issue is that we hardly know each other. Not really. Immigration would never buy it anyway.”

  “I think you’re wrong. I think they’d buy it because we obviously care about each other. Even my coach said he noticed a di
fference in me since we’ve been hanging out. He thinks my temper’s mellowed out a little.”

  “That’s great, Cage. Really, but it’s hardly a reason to get married.”

  “No, but your having to go back to Canada is. Why are you being so damn stubborn? Just fucking marry me and stay.” Maybe not the best choice of words?

  “Oh, that’s so romantic. I could put that in my diary. Engagement: Just fucking marry me.”

  “Look. We’re both getting frustrated. Do us both a favor and think about it while I’m gone. I’ll call you when I get there.”

  “I have a better idea. Why don’t you not call me from San Fran, and give me some time to think about it. My thoughts get mixed up when I talk to you. I want the decision to be mine. I don’t want to be bullied into something like this.”

  “You don’t want to talk to me for four days? Can I text you?”

  I felt a bit of the tension slip when she laughed. “It’s not that, really. I’m not mad or anything, and I will miss you, but no. Don’t text me. Well, text me so that I know you made it there safely.” Her voice softened. “I just need to think. I want to stay, I do, but getting married so that I can switch countries is a pretty big deal in my book.”

  “Okay, Karen. You can have your time, but I’m not giving up. I don’t want you to leave.” The more we talked about marriage and the more I thought about it myself, the less crazy it sounded. It was a perfect solution. If for some reason it didn’t work, marriage didn’t have to be a permanent thing. In a perfect world, I only wanted to get married once, but what I wanted and reality were usually not the same thing. “I’ll text you when I pick up my car.”