Page 8 of Penalty to the Heart

I am.

And I shouldn’t be.

That’s what he meant.

That’s what they all mean.

That the better brother… the good brother… is gone… when it should have been me instead. They got the scraps while their real hero was torn away from them.

Because of me.

And they all fucking hate me for it.

Oh, they don’t act like they do.

No.

They act like they care.

Like I fucking matter.

“Are you sure you should be back playing so soon?”

“Did your doctor really give you the all-clear to return to the team after such a devastating accident?”

“How’s your arm and ribs? Shouldn’t you have had more physical therapy before coming right back to work?”

“You can come back next season. No one will fault you for needing some extra time to deal with … “

So much fake concern for my well-being. So many whispers behind my back when they thought I wasn’t paying attention. They don’t fucking care about me. I can feel the resentment in their gaze when they all look at me.

They hate me.

Funny thing is… I don’t care.

They can’t hate me more than I hate myself.

So fuck them.

Fuck all of them.

Hot burning rage blinds me momentarily, making it impossible to see anything but my anger, much less the Blackhawks’ forward coming at me at full force.

One fractured moment … .

A second …

A breath …

A heartbeat …

It’s only when I see a puck slide past my head and hit the net behind me that I snap out of the red-hazed fog.

It’s also at this moment that I decide to lose my goddamn mind.

Without warning or real provocation, I charge at the celebrating shooter and swing my stick so hard behind his kneecap that I swear I hear his bone crack over the crowd’s loud cheers.

“ARGH!” he shouts in pain, falling onto the ice and grabbing his knee while I look down at him and grin maniacally.

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