Page 81 of Bombshells
Calgary scores on us again in the second period. It turns into a very long game. Trevi pulls off a beautiful fast-touch goal, but then the minutes tick down, and we’re still losing. And somehow it feels inevitable. No winning streak can last forever. And for no good reason—since we’re only down by one—the loss seems fated.
Coach tries to rally us, and we fire on the keeper a few more times. Castro gets a breakaway and manages to ship the puck to Campeau. And, man, he almost makes it work. Campeau finds his opening, but not before the same jerk who tripped him earlier in the game trips him again.
Then those fuckers score, and the ref doesn’t call the delayed penalty.
“What the fuck,” O’Doul barks, before skating off to argue the call. But even from twenty yards away I can see the ref giving him the universal shrug for I didn’t see it.
Meanwhile, the Calgary fans cackle while Campeau fumes.
We line up for another faceoff, and the game that started rough and then turned bad, jumps the rails all the way to ugly. Because Campeau skates right over to his opponent, throws off his gloves, and slugs the guy.
I should mention at this point that Bryce Campeau is a fine hockey player with a bright future. He has many enviable qualities. Fighting, however, is not his strong suit. So the minute he picks this fight, every other dude on my team groans.
“Fuck, I can’t watch,” Trevi says, giving me a worried glance as we wait awkwardly in front of the bench for the fight to be over. “How bad is it?”
“Bad,” I mutter as Campeau’s helmet flies off after a punch to the jaw. “That’s gonna leave a mark.”
“He should never have taken this fight,” Crikey says from the bench.
“At least it will be over soon, right?”
“Uh-huh,” I say with a sigh. “Right about…ouch.” The Calgary heavy lands two more meaty blows—one to the chest and one to the face, and my teammate finally falls down hard on his ass.
The refs jump in, haul the Calgary dude away, and help Campeau up.
My teammate is clutching his ribs. He doesn’t even stop to pick up his helmet and gloves, or his stick. He just skates for the bench, cursing to himself and looking defeated.
The Calgary fans are laughing their butts off, and there’s one minute left in the game.
“All winning streaks end eventually,” Trevi says with a sigh.
“Man. I really deserve my light beer tonight.”
Trevi laughs and shakes his head.
* * *
Everyone’s mood after the game is somber and quiet, except for Coach, who is blazing mad. On the bus back to the hotel, I can hear him up in front, reading Campeau the riot act.
He started with words like “ridiculous” and “short-sighted,” and his criticisms only got more colorful from there.
Coach is pissed because Campeau managed to injure his ribs, and probably will miss a few games, “for no fucking reason,” as he put it.
Ouch.
I close my eyes and try to relax. The first thing that pops into my head, though, is Sylvie. I wonder if she had practice tonight. I wonder if she saw our shitastic game.
And I wonder what she thinks about Campeau’s fight. Is she worried about him?
“Psst,” O’Doul says as the bus pulls up at the hotel.
I open my eyes fast. “Yeah?”
“It’s Jimbo’s birthday. I’m throwing him a little party in the lobby bar. One hour from now. Don’t miss it.”
“Oh, Christ. Yeah, man. I’ll be there.”
“Bring your guitar,” he says. “We’re gonna need a lift.”
