Dropping Gloves

by Catherine Gayle

  “Did you?” he replied, not even attempting to hide how pleased he was with himself.

  “I did. And it’s been accepted.”

  “Imagine that.”

  The next five games on our schedule were all at home. We came away with a divisional win against the Vancouver Canucks, almost solely due to our goaltender, Nicklas Ericsson, standing on his head through the whole game. We only managed to put up two goals, one of them seriously flukey, and we gave the Canucks more opportunities to score than they should have had in a week of games. Nicky didn’t bat an eye, though. He stopped every shot they sent his way, and he came off the ice with a smile on his face, telling us all what a good job we’d done in front of him.

  It was a bald-faced lie, and he knew it, but I was just glad he was keeping his head on straight. He’d been in and out of the net over the last several years, even getting sent down to the minors for a full season, because of some addiction problems. That all seemed to be a thing of the past, or at least he was being diligent about his sobriety.

  Lately, he had been a rock in goal. Good thing, too, because the rest of the team? We had been an utter wreck all season, and in particular tonight. We’d been lucky to come away with any wins so far this year, considering how we’d been playing. We couldn’t let it keep going like this, either. The luck that had been following us around would eventually give out, and we would start losing, maybe even in some games that we ought to win. That was just how it went in the NHL.

  Players-only meetings tended to happen after a really bad loss, usually in the middle of a stretch of other bad losses. It wasn’t common to call for one after a win, especially when it seemed like the team just hadn’t found a groove in the new season. But we were a team with a lot of expectations for being a contender for the Stanley Cup this year—from ourselves, our fans, the media—and we couldn’t afford to fall into a slump. Tonight, the Canucks should have won by a mile. At this point, something needed to be said, and nothing the coaches or team executives had to say to the guys had been getting through.

  So after we left the ice and everyone bumped heads with Nicky, congratulating him for his shutout that saved our bacon, I went over to Bergy. He was about to give his postgame speech to the boys, but what I had to say needed to come first.

  “Can you give me a few minutes with them?” I asked.

  He gave me one of his intense appraisals that used to make me twitchy. The guy had a hell of an evil eye, but I’d come to understand that he wasn’t trying to kill me with laser beams or anything when he looked me over like that. Instead, it was more that he was attempting to get a read on my thoughts. Kind of like he was discerning the things I didn’t say so he could piece the whole puzzle together. “It’s your team,” he finally said. “You do what you think is necessary.”

  He gave Webs and Adam Hancock, the other assistant coach, a nod, and all three of them filed out of the locker room. Webs had an odd look in his eye, and his lips were pursed together all wonky, and I didn’t have the first clue what that was about. I wasn’t really in the mood to explore it, either, considering it likely had something to do with Katie. Had she told him how I’d had my hands all over her? He might be plotting my death at this very moment, or if not that, something equally unpleasant. Still, he left with the other coaches, so I figured I had at least until I was done talking to the boys. After that, I might need to get Levi to act as a lookout for me. Or maybe Coop. Coop was still a wide-eyed rookie, so he was easier to boss around. Levi always acted like I’d lost my mind for thinking he would do what I told him to. That was the problem with brothers.

  Time to get on with it. I closed the door behind the coaches and locked it.

  When I turned around, Wheels caught my eye and nodded, similar to the look Bergy had given me. I glanced over at Burnzie, who gave me a get-on-with-it wave, and then I caught the eye of Marc “Danger” d’Aragon. Danger was another older guy, like Wheels, who’d been with the Storm for a few seasons now. He’d been wearing the other A since we’d found out Soupy had definitely torn his ACL and wouldn’t be back the rest of the season. Danger’s face was an expressionless mask right now, which I knew meant he felt exactly how I did about the shitty way we’d played this game. He was always joking and smiling, unless things weren’t going well. Checking him for a grin was the easiest way to tell where he stood.

  I cleared my throat, and the boys all focused in on me. Once the guys realized the door was closed and it was just us, all the talk and laughter died off pretty fast. Everyone took a seat at their stalls, still stripping off their gear but doing it without the usual chatter. Some of the guys looked sheepish, probably because they recognized their own shitty play. Others looked rebellious. Koz, in particular, looked like he wanted to blame someone else even though he’d been one of the biggest problems out there tonight. Yes, he had a ton of offensive skill, but he’d completely ignored the idea of helping out on defense.

  “We won tonight,” I finally said, choosing my words carefully. “But we shouldn’t have, and I think every guy in this room fucking knows it.”

  Koz let out a snort, and a few guys, including Levi, shot him looks from all around the room. I kept going, doing my best to ignore his interruption.

  “The whole fucking season so far, we’ve been playing sloppy hockey. We’re making stupid passing through the middle without looking up to see the forward from the other team who’s streaking in. We’re trying to make pretty plays with the puck instead of just dumping and chasing or trying to get a greasy goal. We’re getting completely away from Bergy’s system. We’re putting too much pressure on our goaltenders, and we’re forgetting the idea of five guys playing as a unit in every zone. Turnovers in the neutral zone. Forwards hanging out up high waiting on the D to get the puck out of the zone instead of backchecking. D giving the other team too much time and space instead of playing them hard. And there’s no fucking excuse for any of it. It ends now. Everybody pulls his fucking weight. We’re going to forget all about playing a pretty game and just focus on the basics. Anyone who can’t do that, who tries to get too fucking fancy and screws things up for the rest of us, is going to have to answer to the room.”

  “Answer how?” Koz demanded, as surly as I’d ever heard him. Probably because he knew he was one of the biggest offenders. At least half the things I’d listed, he’d been guilty of tonight. “You might be captain, but you’re not God. You can’t make us do shit.”

  “If you were paying more attention to what’s happening on the ice than flirting with that girl in the front row, maybe we wouldn’t be having this talk,” Burnzie shot back at him. “If Babs says you’re going to answer to us, you’re going to fucking answer.”

  “Says who?” Koz demanded. “You? Yeah, let’s see you make me.”

  “Come on over here. I’ll be happy to.” Burnzie cracked his knuckles.

  Jonny stood up, slowly taking off his gear. He could have done that sitting down, but I got the sense that he was trying to send a message. I wasn’t sure who he was sending it to, though—Burnzie or Koz.

  I should have thought this through better before speaking up, and I needed to figure things out fast, before animosity completely took over the room. Should I have guys put money in a till? A set amount would hurt some more than others because of the huge differences in contracts from one player to the next. Extra reps in the gym? That could end up helping the team even if it sucked for the guy having to do them, I supposed. But no matter what I settled on, how was I going to enforce any of it? The whole thing was going to fall on my shoulders, since I was the one instituting it. I was still racking my brain for the best solution when Wheels spoke up.

  “Suicides after practice, ten percent of your earnings for that game to the charity of your choice, and taking over rookie duties for a week sounds fair. Maybe on a sliding scale, depending on how many times you fuck up in a game.”

  Sounded brutal to me, but maybe something brutal was called for before our season went down t
he drain. Suicides—skating from one line to another and back repeatedly—were guaranteed to make your thighs and lungs burn. Ten percent of a guy’s pay for a game, no matter what kind of salary he earned, was enough to make a dent in his wallet. And most guys were glad to be done with being a rookie as soon as possible because of how much they got razzed. When it came right down to it, we put them through a bit of hazing. Nothing horrible. They had to carry bags for the veterans, pick up pucks after practice, things like that. Once a guy got past his rookie season, though, he never wanted to be stuck handling those tasks again. In fact, the idea that Wheels was the one suggesting it made me do a double take. He had to be willing to do those things himself or he would never have suggested it as a blanket rule. He wasn’t perfect; he fucked up in games just as much as the rest of us.

  “No fucking chance I’ll do any of that,” Koz said. He laughed, too, and nodded at Levi with a cocky grin. “Right, 501? That’s bullshit.”

  “What’s bullshit is the way you played tonight,” Burnzie said. “If you would stop prancing around out there—”

  Koz jumped to his feet and was halfway across the room, eyes bulging. “Who the fuck is prancing?”

  Burnzie was on his feet in a flash. Fists flew before I knew what was happening. I rushed in to break them up, but everyone else had the same thought and someone landed a punch right on my nose. Well, not quite everyone. Wheels and Danger grabbed me and dragged me back, with Wheels saying, “Let them go at it. Koz needs to have his ass whipped.”

  I put a hand to my nose. No blood, at least, but it was fucking sore.

  Everyone was shouting over each other to be heard. A few more guys than just those two started throwing punches. This was absolutely not what I’d had in mind. Not even close.

  But then someone whistled, high and loud, and guys started to back off. Jonny was in the middle of the room, standing over the Storm logo, with both Burnzie and Koz trapped in headlocks, one under each arm. They were still trying to get at each other, but Jonny wouldn’t let go until he was good and ready to. “You two dipshits want me to crack your skulls together? There’s nothing I would enjoy more, I can promise you that. Cool your fucking jets.”

  The rest of the guys helped him separate the two, and everyone gradually settled back into their stalls. Koz had a red welt over one eye that was bound to leave him with a nasty shiner. Burnzie was holding his hand funny like maybe he’d hurt it when he’d busted Koz’s face.

  I turned to Wheels and Danger, hoping for some wisdom. “Now what do I do?” I asked, keeping my voice down.

  Danger grinned. He fucking grinned, like he was enjoying this. “Let it work itself out. Teams need something to bring them together. Sometimes it’s bonding on road trips. Sometimes it’s overcoming a bunch of injuries. And then there are the times like this.”

  “This doesn’t seem like something that’ll bring anyone together,” I muttered. “Seems like something that’ll drive a wedge in the middle of us. Guys’ll pick sides. I don’t know.”

  Wheels just crossed his arms in front of him and nodded. “Maybe. There’s always that risk. But I’ve seen it happen. Let things settle down, and we’ll see where we’re at.” He reached overhead and tugged his shirt up and off from behind. “I bet that was all it’ll take to keep from having guys skate suicides and all, though.”

  My stomach soured. Maybe he was right, but I had a strong sense that he was wrong and I’d just fucked everything up for the whole team. I should have just kept my damn mouth shut.

  Jim and Bergy never should have made me the captain. The guys deserved better than what I was able to give them.

  I’d been lying in bed, thoughts racing through my mind, for almost an hour when my phone dinged. When I shifted to grab it off the nightstand, I dislodged Blackbeard. He gave me an irritated meow and a sleepy scowl before circling his spot three or four times and resettling on my pillow. Even when he slept, he liked to be curled up on my shoulder, or more specifically, on the pillow, nestled in the space where my neck and shoulder met. I waited until he was cozy again and then unlocked my phone screen to see who was texting me at this hour.

  It was from Ray “Razor” Chambers, a guy who had been my best friend since our rookie season, even though he could be an ass. We’d been nearly inseparable in the early part of our careers. After two years, though, he’d been traded for a draft pick—the same pick that Jim Sutter had used to select Levi. Razor had gone off to play for the Sabres, and over this past summer, he’d been picked up by the Thunderbirds in the expansion draft. The only reason he would be up this late was that the T-Birds were on the road right now, playing on the West Coast. They’d be here in Portland in a few days. I had promised to buy him dinner when they got to town.

  I debated ignoring his message until morning, because it was probably just about that dinner, but decided against it. With everything that had happened after the game tonight, plus the fact that I couldn’t get Katie and the way she’d kissed me out of my mind, there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d be sleeping any time soon. I opened his message.

  What the fuck kind of captain are you to call a meeting and then let the guys come to blows?

  I’d hoped that we would be able to keep all of that in the room. Bergy and the other coaches hadn’t said anything when they’d come in, although there was no doubt they knew something was up. But the media had been just outside that door, waiting for it to be opened up for their scrum. They must have heard.

  Me: What do you know about it?

  Razor: Polanski and a dozen other reporters were live-tweeting while it went down, whatever it was. It’s bad, Babs. It’s all over the blogs. Mom said TSN talked about it on-air tonight. What the fuck is going on in there?

  Me: You know I’m not going to tell you. These things stay in the room.

  Razor: It’s me, Babs. You know I won’t say a fucking word to anyone.

  Me: Exactly. It’s you, and you’re not part of this team anymore. No fucking chance.

  Razor: Fine. But if there’s anyone you want me to go a round with when we get to Portland, you just say the word. I’ll gladly bash someone’s face in for you.

  Me: You’re my fucking hero.

  Razor: Apparently you need someone to play the hero. Can’t keep your team in line. Jim should have tried harder to keep Zee around. No chance anyone would pull that shit with Zee as the captain, and then I wouldn’t have to deal with him here.

  Me: Ha fucking ha.

  Razor: Seriously, I will break someone’s face for you. Just say the word. It’d be my pleasure to sort out your team’s personality issues since you can’t seem to do it. Think about it.

  Me: Yeah, playing the martyr. Shocker.

  Razor: Hey, it’s not like anyone’ll think anything’s out of the ordinary. Since we can’t seem to fucking score, let alone keep anyone else from scoring, guys are fighting every game. Trying to prove their worth or some shit. Hunter’s about to go ballistic.

  Me: I’m sure all that fighting’s helping you score more.

  Razor: I’m scoring more with the ladies.

  Me: Never would have thought that was an issue for you.

  Razor: Because I’m not fucking hung up on a girl? One who isn’t just as hung up on me as I am on her?

  Me: You don’t know anywhere near as much as you think you do.

  Razor: You going to deny the fact that Katie Weber has you completely pussy whipped? I bet you still haven’t been laid. Jamie Fucking Babcock, the millionaire fucking virgin All-Star who all the girls are ga-ga over. They don’t even know they’d be breaking you in.

  Me: Like I’d tell you if I was? Besides, I meant you don’t know as much about Katie as you think.

  Razor: You think Katie’s still a virgin? Not fucking likely. Anyone with an Internet connection or a smart phone has seen her plastered all over TMZ with all sorts of douchebags, and I promise you, she’s been tapped. Multiple times. Who the fuck do you think you’re saving yourself for?

 
Me: Shut your fucking mouth, talking about her like that.

  Razor: If that’s not it, then what the fuck did you mean?

  Me: I meant I’m not the only one still hung up.

  I don’t know why I would tell him that. Hell, I don’t know why I’d ever let him in on the fact that I was still a virgin years ago. He knew, and Levi knew, but that was it. I was just lucky he hadn’t said anything about it to the guys, and I had to skate a fine line with Levi all the time to be sure he didn’t open his big mouth and blab. Things like that get around a locker room really fast, and I had always taken enough heat from the guys just because I had a baby face that girls liked. I had dimples, I blushed easily, girls screamed for me at games and whatnot like I was in a damn boy band… Add virgin to that, and they would torture the ever-living shit out of me until I buried my head in the sand and retired.

  Regardless of all that, there was no reason for me to tell Razor about Katie. About how she wanted to be with me again. No reason to let on about any of it. I wasn’t planning to act on her suggestions, and I’d already allowed her to take things further than I should have. What purpose would filling Razor in serve?

  Razor: She still wants you? If she’s sticking around and you don’t figure out a way to put a ring on her finger, you’re a bigger fucking idiot than I thought you were.

  Who knew Razor could be philosophical?

  Today was turning into one of my busiest days in recent memory. It was barely after lunchtime, and I was already exhausted. In the morning, I’d gone in for the closing on my house. I was officially a homeowner now, and at the moment, I was sitting on the empty floor of my house. I had a bunch of stuff being delivered tomorrow morning, and I wanted to have a plan in place. I was trying to get a good visual formed in my mind for furniture placement when my phone rang, interrupting my solitude.