Page 69 of Breakneck Hockey

My face hits the ice-cold deck, and my stick flies toward the goal. The source of my fall? Three guesses. No, all we need is one. Sutter. Fucking asshole Sutter.

“Oops. I fell,” he says, shrugging.

“You dirty piece of shit.”

I’m to my feet so fast. Is the ref calling that? I’m owed a damn penalty shot. But nooooo. Somehow Sutter’s terrible acting convinced them he tripped, and the whistle is for the face off. I didn’t see what he did, but no way it could have been anything other than bullshit.

Yeah, no.

“C’mon ref, give him something. Tripping. Hooking. Being a doucheknuckle.” If they don’t have a penalty for that by now, they should. They can just go right ahead and call it a penalty for Suttering.

The ref ignores me.

Nothing? Fine. I’ll take matters into my own hands.

Sutter and I face off in the Boston zone. I bend, stick rested against my thighs. He makes a kissy face for me just before the puck drops. I ignore the puck, drop my stick, and punch Sutter in his stupid face.

Right hook. Right hook. Right fucking hook. God this feels good. It doesn’t buy my goal back, but it’s a close second.

His fist wraps into my jersey and gets a deadly left hook to my face. Sutter and his damn southpaw. The refs pull us off each other.

“Why don’t you go play soccer, Sutter? With acting like that, you should trade your skates for cleats.” I’m being led backward by refs toward the penalty box, same for Sutter, like we’re damn toddlers.

“Kiss my ass, Alderchuck.”

His foot moves, I lunge. We’re yanked back by refs.

I won’t be kissing anything of his later. He bought himself a one-way ticket to handsville. To make sure of that, I’m letting it leak that he’s contracted a mysterious venereal disease.

After two minutes of four-on-four while Sutter and I serve our time, I’m only out for a quick shift before the change. The guys on the bench are just as pissed as I am. I sit, fuming, and rip the bottle of liquid electrolytes from my brother’s hand.

“You were robbed,” one of our defensemen says.

“It was dirty,” Stacey agrees. “He tripped over air, nothin’ t’do with you.”

“I expect nothing less from Sutter.” I knock back some electrolytes, stewing. Those were my damn points. I want tostay with this team. Stacey and I got a one-year contract, which means they felt they were taking a risk. But Vancouver hasn’t won a cup in years, and they saw us as a chance to pump new life into the team. You’d think that by fucking Sutter it would let me off the hook for his dirtier plays, but no. Not with a slimeball like him.

I don’t know why I expected any different. Because he’s sometimes a decent human being when we knock boots?Ugh.I have got to stop being romanced by his massive hog. Clearly, there’s no romance to be had anyway.

Fine. Two can play.

I proceed to poke-check the fuck out of him. A few of my poke-checks lean into slashing territory, but I make sure the refs aren’t looking. They tend to follow the puck, which means there’s lots to get away with if you’re careful. Annoying the fuck out of Sutter is a great use of my stick when the puck isn’t attached to it.

My goal never comes, not even an assist. Not a single point the entire game, and I have Sutter to thank for that. He managed to slip an assist through, despite my best efforts to stop him. Vancouver loses two-three.

“Face it, I’m better than you, Alderchuck,” he says. His eye’s already sporting a nice fan of purple around his eye thanks to me.

“Go back to your tower, Quasimodo!” I feel bad comparing Sutter to Quasimodo—Quasi doesn’t deserve that. But also, it’s simply not true. The only way to make Sutter look hotter is to give him battle bruises. He’s pure sin in hockey gear right now Goddammit. My dick’s begging me to forget the whole thing for some of his elite manhandling and it pisses me off more.

In the locker room, I toss my gloves at the wall. The whole team’s riled up on my behalf.

“That was bullshit,” Henry—our goaltender—says. “Sutter needs to be put in his place.”

I nod. “Couldn’t agree more.”

And now Sutter has a giant target on his back. I wish I were still speaking to him, so I could tell him how much my whole team wants to beat his ass. But I won’t be speaking to him, so I’ll have to enjoy that knowledge all by myself.

Like clockwork, Sutter’s text appears. He didn’t even wait to shower. He must have just made it back to his phone.

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