by Shey Stahl
Crossing the Line
Book 2
A novel by Shey Stahl
This book is a work of fiction. Names, sponsors, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, dead or living, is coincidental.
The opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author.
Delayed Offsides
Copyright © 2015 by Shey Stahl
Published in the United States of America
EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250.000.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the author.
Disclaimer
This story is completely fictional. While real life hockey teams, locations, and events may occur, no real life people will. This story is intended for the sole purpose of being a fictional novel and in no way relates to actual NHL teams, players or the organizations within them.
Copyright notice of hockey definitions
All descriptions of hockey rules are found on the NHL.com website under their official rules.
Cover Design and Interior Formatting: Allusion Graphics, LLC
Editing: Allusion Graphics, LLC
Cover Photography Credit: © OSTILL
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
Acknowledgements
About the Author
The Trainer
A situation where an attacking player (or players) has preceded the puck across the attacking blue line, but the defending team is in a position to bring the puck back out of its defending zone without any delay or contact with an attacking player, or, the attacking players are in the process of clearing the attacking zone.
Leo Orting
Blue Line - The lines separating the attacking/defending zones from the neutral zone.
June 2010
Metropolitan Correctional Center
Chicago Illinois
“Why?”
“Why what?”
I wanted to fucking punch him. “Why’d you do it?”
Dave shook his head to avoid looking at me. “Why does it even matter?” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the metal table separating us in a room filled with criminals at the Cook County Correction Center. As far as I could tell, Dave belonged here. “I’ll say the same thing I said to Evan. Why the fuck does it matter?”
Dave Keller used to be one of my good friends. Used to be is key here. It all changed this last summer when my so called friend was charged with attempted murder. It wasn’t just attempted murder on anyone though. It was the girl of one of my brothers, a guy I would bleed for. A guy who’s bled for me.
Christmas Eve, Evan Masen, or Mase as I call him, was walking home after getting some dinner with another one of our teammates. He came across a girl who’d been brutally beaten and raped in an alley. Being the guy he was, he took her to the hospital and waited there until she woke up. Having no memory of the incident, she couldn’t tell the police what happened. We moved on, thought it would blow over and Mase fell hopelessly in love with this girl. Months later we were just starting the Stanley Cup playoffs when a comment made by an ex-teammate sparked a suspicion in Mase.
That teammate being Dave Keller. The guy sitting in front of me right now.
What I didn’t know, until I demanded some answers was that he was also the one who roughed up my girl. She didn’t know she was mine yet, but she would eventually.
That girl being Callie Pratt. She’d developed a reputation for being a slut, having slept with every guy on the team, whatever, she wasn’t that to me. Anyway, one night, not long after Dave had committed the rape on Mase’s girl, he got rough with Callie, gave her a black eye. She refused to admit who that guy was. Only we knew now.
“Callie was your friend. That’s why it fucking matters.”
We’ve all been rough with chicks who dig that shit but there’s a line. He knows it and I know it. And he crossed it and better be glad he’s in here or I’d show him exactly what it feels like to be abused and tossed aside like a fucking rag doll.
Dave raised an eyebrow, grinning. “No, she was a fuckin’ puck bunny we’ve all got our dicks wet with, Leo.” With his harsh words, he never broke eye contact with me as he folded his arms over his chest. “And then she tried to say we couldn’t anymore. Wanted to have some fuckin’ morals?” He shook his head and stared at the wall. “The way I see it, she deserved it.”
My blood was boiling. I imagined a brutal death filled with torture and vindication for what he had done. I’m not much of a fighter but to hear him talk this way about what he did to Callie was more than I could handle. How dare he talk this way about my girl.
“And Ami… she blew me off.” He laughed lightly. “It wasn’t anything personal. Just letting her know she couldn’t do that to me.”
Ami Sutton was that girl Mase rescued in the alley. You know, the one he fell hopelessly in love with. We all did. So Dave doing this, it didn’t sit well with anyone.
I clapped slowly. “Well, congratulations. You’ve managed to be charged with attempted murder and lost your ability to ever play in the NHL again. Nicely done.”
It was hard to imagine how Evan felt knowing Dave brutally raped Ami and he was the one who found her like that. The memories he must have of that are difficult to grasp. The worst part was he was friends with him. We trusted Dave. Never did we think he’d do something like this.
I stood from the chair, metal scraping against concrete. “Enjoy getting fucked in the ass. You’re a piece of shit and deserve everything you get in this shithole.”
And then I walked away.
Game 36 – Nashville Predators – Wednesday, December 22, 2010
United Center - Chicago
That conversation with Dave took place months ago right before we won the Stanley Cup.
I’d cooled off by now but my feelings hadn’t changed for Dave. That motherfucker could rot in hell for all I cared. I’m sure Evan felt the same way. Betrayal is a funny thing. Sticks with you.
Now here we were, game thirty-six into the following season and, yeah, I was still pissed about it. Mostly because both of my best friends were affected by that day.
In case you missed it, I am a hockey player. Not just any hockey player. I will gloat a little here because I was the number one pick in the 2007 draft for the Florida Panthers. I was traded the following year to the Blackhawks as their star center. The following year I was named the captain of the team. Youngest one the organization had ever name
d captain at twenty-one-years old. That was three years ago.
“Hey,” Mase sat next to me. “Hand me that tape.” He gestured to the white roll next to my thigh.
Evan Masen was my best friend. I told him everything, shit he never wanted to hear but I told him anyhow. Growing up the way I did, it was nice to have that one guy who always had my back, on and off the ice. He’s one of those guys who you don’t realize his strength until you see him on the ice. He’s fearless.
Without saying anything, I handed it to him and continued to tape my stick. I had a particular way I liked to tape it and if anything disrupted me, or touched it, I had to start over.
Every hockey player has a ritual before a game. They put their gear on the same way every time. Tape their stick in the same direction. Hell, even some go so far as to eat the same food on game day never veering from that routine in fear they’ll mess up that superstition they swear they don’t have. We grow beards during the playoff season, sit in the same location on the bus and on the team planes. Eat with the same group, anything we do, and with every win, we do it that way all the time and it becomes a habit of sorts.
I’m talking about myself here. That’s me. But I bet you could ask any other hockey player, hell, any other athlete, and they all have the same rituals.
Maybe it’s something that happens when we’re younger. Actually, I know that’s it for me. It’s a belief that if we have lady luck on our side we can hit harder, make impressive goals, or make the impossible happen. Maybe if we’re lucky we can make up for what we’re lacking. What I’m lacking. What I believe sets me back.
It’s all bullshit really. Superstition. Lady luck. All of it is horse shit.
I still do it the same on game day though. Even though I know in my heart it’s a crock of shit, I won’t tempt the fates and not perform the same routines that keep the good mojo flowing.
Ryan Shaw (Shawzer), our left winger fresh off his rookie season, but still the brunt of our jokes, wandered over to me before the game and sat down as if nothing was wrong and last night didn’t happen. He got drunk and passed out. That’s a big mistake with a group of hockey players. We waited until he was unconscious before we wrapped him in Saran Wrap, shaved half his head and took pictures of his metamorphosis from hockey player to the chrysalis state we left him in. Those pictures were now hanging in his cubby. Side glances turned to double takes as the players who hadn’t noticed the pictures until now erupted into fits of laughter that filled the room.
“Je-sus Christ, Shawzer, what the fuck were you thinking?” Travis Sono, another forward on our team asked, rubbing the side of his head when he took off the beanie.
Ryan hadn’t fixed his half shaved head and left it that way. Fit him well if you ask me.
“Listen up, boys!” Coach O’Brien came into the locker room getting ready for his speech. Same speech, same idea every time just delivered slightly different each day. Different teams play different ways. He glanced at me, then Mase, then Remy Carson, who was beside me, and unfortunately for coach, his stoic gaze fell to the pictures of Ryan. “Take those goddamn things down!”
Hysterical fits of laughter broke out once again.
Ryan stood next to me in the tunnel, I was still laughing as we headed out to the ice for warm-ups. “I can’t believe you fuckers. I swear to God, I’m gonna shit in your cubby if you do that again.”
“Show some class, eh.” I said, acting disgusted. I’m not even sure if it’s possible for me to actually be disgusted being a hockey player but I won’t let him know that.
Ryan snorted, still amused with himself. “Go fuck yourself.”
I shoved my stick at his ass. “You’re next, baby.”
“Watch this.” As we took shots, I ribbed Remy. “Hey, Mase, you see their new d-man?”
“Who’s that?” Mase asked watching the Predators defenseman stretch.
Lapanta was a big motherfucker and Mase didn’t stand a goddamn chance against him. Still, you’d never stop him if he wanted to brawl. Mase was ornery like that. He’d take on guys twice his size just for the challenge, win or lose, he didn’t care.
I pointed my stick at him. “Their new d-man from Australia, Beckham Lapanta.” I taunted Mase, circling him around center ice before I fired a shot at the goal. “He’s lookin’ for you.”
“Mase, he’ll kick your ass,” Remy warned him, looking to me with a smile because he was only provoking Mase to go after the guy. He didn’t like to be told he couldn’t. “I wouldn’t exactly send a message right now, alright bud.”
I’m a good hockey player. Remember? First round pick, good, and I know it. Cocky maybe but I earn my status as the captain of the Chicago Blackhawks. I answer plays with goals and make shit happen. I have impeccable speed on the ice and quick stick skills.
Well into the first period and we were needing goals. We just weren’t makin’ plays happen and when we did, we were being called on penalties that were bullshit.
I circled Mase knowing he needed a pep talk. “Stay smart. No friends out here.” I knocked our heads together. For a brief moment our gaze met. “Off the draw that guy’s really cheatin’ ya, eh.”
“That fuckin’ d-man sticks to me.” Mase said glaring, breathing heavy. “How could he not see that hit was bullshit?”
He was referring to where I was nailed in the head by Lapanta’s knee. Yeah, it wasn’t called a penalty but we all knew it was one. Evan was my brother and he now had it out for the new d-man. You don’t fuck with me and not have Mase call you out.
“Can’t stay up on your feet?” I egged him on knowing that if you wanted to switch his focus, you provoked him. “You goin’ after him?”
“I’m gonna fuckin’ nail him.”
Sure enough, Mase went after him during the second period.
They circled around each other when the whistle blew and Remy bumped into me. “Fifty says Mase gets his ass kicked.”
After beating my stick on the ice, I shook my head watching the Predators center shoot up the ice and try to give Mase a push. I wanted to jump in there and knock the guy out for shoving him. “No way I’m betting on that.”
They dropped gloves and I think Mase wanted to pick them up after that first hit and walk away, only he didn’t.
Still circling, each one daring that first punch knowing it would result in a penalty. Lapanta threw the first punch landing on Evan’s jaw. They danced for a minute and though Mase defended himself, it wasn’t an even match. Lapanta was a beast.
“Easy there,” the ref who Mase just knocked in the jaw snapped back when he was trying to break up the fight.
“Well, fuck you then. Eat it.” Mase got in his face heading to the penalty box with Lapanta trailing behind him escorted by his own linesman. “Call the fuckin’ penalties and that shit wouldn’t happen.”
“We’ve already been over that, Masen.” He defended. “I didn’t see it.”
“Well, I’m still mad about it. You didn’t fuckin’ call it.” Mase shrugged opening the door to the penalty box where two more of our players sat. “Whatcha guys doin’ in here?” He laughed. “Care if I join the party?”
Didn’t matter these days what was happening, he was in a good mood. I think Ami had a lot to do with that. She was good for him. Kept him aggressive on the ice fighting for his brothers but he was quick to let stuff go.
With five minutes left in the second period, Mase sat next to me on the bench with a towel held to his face. “Want me to lay him out for you, bud?” I gave him a look like I was serious but deep down, he knew I wasn’t. I’ve been in seven fights in my entire four year NHL career. I wasn’t on the ice to fight. I was there to score goals and make plays happen. By chance if you rubbed me the wrong way, yeah, I’d certainly defend myself against some of these savages. I’m no pussy. Although I don’t like fighting. I hate the sight of blood and the idea of hitting someone in the head makes me nauseous.
Don’t repeat that. Like ever.
Coach looked over at us
, his face a constant state of indifference, checking out Mase to see if he was alright.
“Yeah, right.” Mase blew me off, and he seemed concerned that I didn’t think he was serious. No way I’d go after Lapanta unless I had a fucking death wish. And I don’t.
“Listen, Mase,” I was contemplative as I spoke trying to get a rise out of him. “I would fight anyone for you.” We both looked up when Remy slammed a guy into the boards and scooted down the bench getting ready for the line change. “Well, not Remy or Travis. Or Tyler. But maybe Ryan?” I nodded, okay with my choice. “Fuckin’ eh, I’d definitely fight that son of a bitch for you.”
“Reassuring, thanks,” Mase said, tossing the towel aside and barreling over the wall with me.
“Thought so.” I patted his shoulder.
The Predators, as they usually did, started out quickly in that third period, moving the puck into our zone and keeping it there for the first few minutes. They didn’t have the advantage for long before I was making the plays. The game turned and moved to center ice where I had the puck, but never able to control it the way I needed to. During a game we have advantages that carry over to our personalities for the most part. Our personalities often defined who we are on the ice. Mase, when he’s challenged on the ice, he answers back with his physicality. He’s a big solid guy, around two-twenty and six-feet-three-inches of well-defined muscle.
Me, a sometimes scrappy, street style center who doesn’t rely on my height, or physical ability, I like to shove it down your throat with speed and accuracy and let you know just how good we really are. With thirty seconds left to play, I stuffed one in behind my back and high in the right pocket to take home the win, one to four.
“Nice game, bud.” Mase said, clapping his hand over my shoulder after the game as we grabbed our bags and headed for the car.
