Hard Hitter

by Sarina Bowen

  O’Doul probably did a very bad job of hiding his discomfort then. “I get it,” he said suddenly. “It’s a bad idea.”

  “A disastrous idea,” the doctor said quietly. “Everyone who gets hooked on that drug ends up wishing he’d never seen it before. Still, if that happens to anyone you know, there are people who would help a guy get off it.”

  He cleared his throat a second time. “That’s good to know.”

  “Let’s just take it in a different direction for a second,” Mulvey said. “Somebody who took that drug before games might do so because he felt he had no other choice. Would you say that’s a possibility?”

  Oh, boy. Here comes the head-shrinking bullshit. “Maybe it just seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Maybe,” Mulvey said slowly. “Or maybe he was in a rut and looking for a way out.”

  O’Doul shrugged. He really didn’t want to get into it.

  “But there’s always a better way,” Mulvey pressed. “If a guy found he couldn’t keep going just the same way, there are people he could talk to about it. For example, you should know that your team psychiatrist enjoys complete doctor-patient privilege. The things a player says to him in confidence will never be repeated. Your team sports-medicine specialist,” he pointed at Dr. Herberts, “is contractually obligated to tell management about health issues which affect an athlete’s ability to play.”

  O’Doul nodded. He knew that.

  “But one of the reasons Nate Kattenberger employs two physicians for his team, is to accommodate his players’ health in a way which allows for privacy when strictly necessary.” The shrink grinned.

  “Interesting,” O’Doul said slowly. That distinction was something he really ought to tell his guys, if indeed they were still his guys when the whole scandal had burned itself out. It was potentially useful information.

  “In fact . . .” The shrink patted his pocket and drew out a business card. “I think it makes sense for the team captain and I to discuss it privately later this week. Just to be sure we’re on the same page.” He extended the card to O’Doul. They locked eyes.

  He hesitated, but not very long. Talking about himself sounded like no fun at all. But if it kept his head in the game, he’d give it a shot. Once. He took the card and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Thanks,” he said gruffly.

  “Thank you for your time,” Herberts said, rising. “If you have any further questions, my door is always open.”

  “But mine is opener,” the psychiatrist said with a wink.

  O’Doul remained in his chair until they had both disappeared. Then he let out a giant sigh of relief. He’d passed the drug test. It wouldn’t make sense for the team to get rid of him now. They wouldn’t do it right before play-offs unless the publicity was so awful they couldn’t avoid it. Coach Worthington would have to let him play tonight, too, or there would only be more gossip on the blogs.

  So that was one hurdle cleared. But there were plenty more. He needed to speak to Ari, to lay his sorry story at her feet and ask for forgiveness. She thought he’d gotten close to her only to preserve his good name. But that was exactly the reverse of what had happened. The moment he realized Vince and Ari were connected, a smarter man would have kept his distance.

  He wasn’t a smarter man, though. He was a smitten one. Convincing her that he was worth the trouble was going to be an uphill battle. But he’d do it. He’d do anything for more of her attention.

  But first, it was game night.

  * * *

  After a rest at home, O’Doul walked to the stadium alone. The security guard at the players’ entrance let him in as usual. So that was another hurdle jumped.

  The first person he saw inside the door was Ari. She was trailed by an older version of herself—an attractive woman with long wavy hair shot through with gray streaks. And a very elderly man.

  “Sweetheart,” he called out before he could think better of it.

  She turned around, surprise on her face. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he said a little awkwardly, wondering how friendly he should be in front of her family. Maybe she hadn’t mentioned him to her mother.

  Ari closed the distance between them, stood up on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek. “Mom, Uncle Angelo, this is Patrick.”

  Her mother beamed. “Thank you for all the help you showed our baby girl,” the woman said.

  “Mom,” Ari warned.

  But her mother cackled. “Sorry, love. But I still worry, no matter how capable you are.”

  Patrick shook both the visitors’ hands. He was glad Ari had her family around her. “Are you back in the house on Hudson Street?”

  “Just got back in this afternoon,” Ari said, her eyes on her shoes.

  He should have felt happy for her, but it meant she wouldn’t be sleeping in his bed tonight. “That’s great,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster. “I’d better . . .” he pointed toward the locker rooms.

  “Yeah,” Ari agreed. “Have a great game. Take care of yourself out there.”

  “Thanks.” He gave them a wave and moved down the hallway.

  Ari’s mother murmured something to her daughter as he walked away. It sounded like, “He’s so handsome.”

  Her daughter’s response was to shush her mother.

  Smiling, he went to his locker to hang up his suit jacket and change into some practice gear. After that, he headed straight to the lounge area, which was packed with players. It was two hours until the puck dropped. Time for stretching, for last minute strategy, and for the taping of sore muscles and hockey sticks.

  As he moved through the room, all the conversation dried up. He grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, and the silence was unnerving.

  Slowly, he turned around to check their faces. Beacon looked grim. Castro stared down at his hands. Did they think he was a druggie? Or about to be cut from the team? Christ. He added two dozen names to the list of people whose trust he needed to win back. For more than a decade he’d given this team his sweat and his blood. He’d given everything he had. He’d watched their backs in every game in every corner of the continent. But it wasn’t really enough to carry them through this ugly moment. As captain, he’d always thought it was his job to be a rock—to never show any kind of fear.

  He’d overshot, it seemed. He’d never shown fear. But he hadn’t shown anything else, either. These guys were his life, and they didn’t even know it.

  O’Doul cleared his throat. Some sort of gesture was necessary. But what? Ari would know, but she wasn’t here. So he took a second to ask himself what she would do in a situation like this. She had so many ways of reaching people. Soothing words. Steady hands. What he’d learned from Ari was that there was always more than one way to touch someone.

  “Guys? Before tonight’s game I think we need to have an emergency . . .” He almost said meeting. But that sounded bleak. “Retreat,” he said instead. “Let’s get everybody in here, shut the door and have a talk.”

  “Okay,” Beacon said slowly. “Who’s missing?”

  Jimbo texted every player who wasn’t currently present, and one by one they appeared in the doorway, curious looks on their faces. When the last man had arrived, O’Doul asked the training assistants to leave. Then he went over to the door to close it.

  But Coach Worthington was standing there, an ornery look on his face. “What are you playing at with your secret meeting?” he asked.

  O’Doul stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. Earlier today he’d been humbled to find the organization he’d worked for this past decade had had his back. But Coach was a new addition. Of course, he wasn’t going to get the same breaks from this man who hardly knew him.

  “Are you willing to trust me?” he asked. “It all comes down to that, right? Either I’m still your captain, and you’ll give me th
is moment to apologize to my guys. If you can’t do that, might as well demote me right now.”

  Coach squinted at him in that appraising way that he had. “You gonna do the right thing for us? Even when it’s hard?”

  “Yeah,” he said without hesitation. “I am.”

  Coach nodded. “Go ahead then. But apologize fast. We’ve got a game to win.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  When Coach turned to go, he went back into the lounge where two dozen pairs of eyes waited. There weren’t any seats left anywhere, so he leaned against one of the high tables and studied the faces in front of him. They were all different shapes, different colors, and different ages. It’s sort of a miracle that they usually got along so well, given they were united by one odd thing—the ability to play hockey at an elite level.

  “Listen,” he said, wishing he had a more elegant opening. But he had to start somewhere. “My official stance on that picture in the Post is that it didn’t happen. But off the record I just wanted to tell you guys that I’m sorry I embarrassed the team. It was a dumbass thing to do.”

  The silence was punctuated only by the sound of a coffee cup set down on a table. Nobody said a word.

  “I’m pretty sure we’ve already seen the end of it, but I wanted to say that anyway,” he continued. “I hope we can all get past it. In the meantime I want to tell you something I learned the hard way this week. If you think there’s something about this job you feel you can’t handle, there’s probably a smart way and a dumb way to deal with it. Don’t be like me. Take the smart way. Find someone in the organization to talk to. I didn’t do that, and now my name—and the team’s name—is in the fucking Post. If I’d gone to someone trustworthy, it all could have been avoided.”

  “Well,” Beacon cleared his throat. “Some of us do stupid shit and just haven’t been caught. So not every guy in this room is hating on you right now. I’m not.”

  “Sucks, though,” Castro said. “If we make it to the play-offs, someone’s gonna say it’s because we’re all doping.”

  O’Doul had never wanted to have this conversation—with the whole team staring at him, wondering how he could be so dumb. Too bad he hadn’t thought of that beforehand. “I sure am sorry for that,” he said quietly. “Wish I could undo the damage.”

  Leo Trevi leaned forward on one of the sofas, his elbows on his knees. “Is there anything we can do? I mean—any way we can help you?”

  O’Doul felt heat climb up the back of his neck. Now he had a brand-new regret—he was sorry he had ever been a dick to this kid. “No, man. I’m in a better place now. But I appreciate the question.”

  If he wasn’t mistaken, his guys finally started to relax a little. They shifted in their seats again, and finished their drinks.

  “Any questions for me?” he asked.

  Nobody raised his hand.

  “All right. I just want to add that if you are ever on the fence about asking for any kind of help, run it by me. I won’t tell a soul.” He straightened up and went to open the door again.

  Crikey nudged him before he got there. “Who’s fighting tonight—you or me?”

  Hell. With everything going on, he’d missed his usual twenty-four hours of nervous preparation. “We can play it by ear?”

  “All right. You and I didn’t spar yesterday. I don’t know if I have this guy figured out yet.”

  O’Doul squeezed Crikey’s biceps. “I’ll take him. I don’t mind. He’ll be looking for me anyway. You can get the next one, maybe.” He opened the door, and players began to disperse to the dressing room or to stretch.

  “Anyone wanna kick the soccer ball around?” Trevi asked. A few guys followed him out.

  The room quieted down, and O’Doul took a newly emptied seat next to Beacon on the sofa.

  “Can I ask you something?” The goalie ran a hand over his own jaw. “Was it the fighting that got to you?”

  “Uh . . .” He’d never said this out loud. “It was a lot of things. But that’s a big one. It sort of consumed all my focus, trying to figure out how to stay healthy and still do battle every night.”

  Beacon shook his head. “Don’t know how you do it, man—ten years of stepping in front of somebody else’s fist. I’m a bag of bruises just from the game itself.”

  “The things we do for money,” he said, laughing it off. But the truth was that he liked hearing Beacon say it—that it wasn’t easy. Maybe he didn’t always have to pretend that it was.

  * * *

  All the rest of the pre-game chatter was about points and play-off standings. They were playing Boston again, the team which was their greatest rival for a play-offs spot. If they lost to Boston, they’d be knocked into fourth place again. So this game had double the usual weight. If they won, the play-offs were within reach.

  Kattenberger’s Statistical Model was throbbing with anticipation over this game, assigning it an importance rating of ten.

  “This one goes to eleven,” Castro joked as they walked down the chute and stepped onto the ice. Tonight was a sellout crowd, and they were loud as O’Doul and his teammates skated once around the rink and then lined up for the national anthem. Tonight it was competently sung by a pop star he’d never heard of. He found his thoughts drifting to Ari. She was probably up in the box, watching right now. Or maybe in some comped seats with her family.

  Even if hockey had been kicking his ass this winter, he still felt that zing. Standing here facing the opposing team, ready to do battle. It was still the best kind of rush.

  Tonight he was paired with Massey, and they started first shift. The other team’s offensive line kept them busy from the first second. He slipped into the zone right away, his entire consciousness focused on the action at hand. His stick became an extension of his will—darting out to foil the other team again and again.

  Midway through the first period, Leo Trevi scored an ugly goal right in front of the net, and the hometown fans went wild. O’Doul slapped the rookie on the ass as they skated back to the bench. The arena fizzed with excitement. The Bruisers picked up their pace even further, confident that it was possible to win this thing.

  Hoping to turn the tide toward his own team, the enforcer—Trekowski, the same jackass who’d called him out on Twitter—challenged him to a fight two minutes later.

  O’Doul actually smiled. “You wanna throw down now? Whatever floats your boat, man.”

  Trekowski gave him a weird look before dropping his gloves. “Gotta fight you before they fire your ass for doping.”

  “Uh-huh. Go ahead. I’m so looped up right now, I fucking love pain. You’re doing me a favor.” O’Doul tried on a wild-eyed stare. He skated in a lazy backward circle. When he was younger, he’d acted loopy sometimes when he didn’t know what else to try.

  Funny—he’d forgotten how it felt to be new at this. To make your own rules.

  At that thought, he lunged forward and grabbed Trekowski’s sweater. “This what you want?”

  Trekowski swung but O’Doul got there first. They both landed punches but O’Doul’s was harder. Just for fun he gave a deranged scream. His next punch connected so hard that Trekowski’s helmet flew off.

  He knew he’d win just from the look in the guy’s eyes. That flicker of hesitation. O’Doul gave it one more good punch and the guy buckled, sprawling out on the ice.

  The whole thing was over in seconds. O’Doul shook out his fist and picked up his gloves. On the way back to the bench, he probed his jaw where he’d been hit.

  “You okay?” the trainer asked, opening the door for him.

  “Never better.”

  As the night progressed, it was true. Boston couldn’t catch them. Bayer got a goal, which Boston answered. But it wasn’t enough. They won 2–1 during regulation play and walked back down the chute two points richer.

  “Fire up the Katt Phone!” Castro howled
. “I want my gold star. Nate can tattoo it on my ass after that game.”

  “Fuck, I’m tired,” Trevi complained. “But it was totally worth it. Someone carry me to Grimaldi’s. I need a slice and a beer.”

  “Tell you what,” O’Doul heard himself say. “I’ll order ten pies to my place.”

  “Your place?” Castro asked. “Like, your apartment? Does it really exist?”

  “Yeah, smartass. There won’t be enough chairs, but it’ll work.” Then he added, uncharacteristically, “I’d like you all to come.”

  There was a stunned silence. Then Leo Trevi said, “I’ll bring a case of beer. And don’t worry, Castro, I’ll make sure there’s a light beer in there for you.”

  Castro flipped him off, and everyone began stripping off their pads.

  Before O’Doul hit the showers, he called Rebecca.

  “What favor do you need now, Doulie?” she answered on the first ring.

  He chuckled. “I need to feed two dozen players in my apartment ASAP. How would you do that if you were me? How late does Grimaldi’s deliver?”

  “Nice of you to give me some notice.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Here’s what I’m going to do for you,” she said. “I’ll call Grimaldi’s myself and beg, because the team puts a lot of money in their pocket. The delivery will show up at ten fifteen because they close soon after that, but I’ll warn your building’s concierge in case it beats you home.”

  “I owe you,” he said.

  “No kidding, hot stuff.”

  “Do you need my credit card number?”

  “I have it memorized. Anything else?”

  “Just that you’re a goddess, and feel free to come up and have a slice with us.”