Page 120 of In It to Win It

I’m not blaming her. Not at all—don’t even think that. I’m blaming myself. Totally.

I’ve lost control of my emotions because of her. I got all riled up because of her. I’m feeling shit I’ve never felt before, and I can’t. I just can’t.

Things only get betterthe next day, when the Department of Player Safety slaps me with a one-game suspension, which is automatic for instigating a fight in the last five minutes of regulation time. I know that rule, but it was the last thing I was thinking about. And that’s on top of the two minutes for roughing, five for fighting, and ten-minute misconduct I got.

Dad’s on the trip with us and after we land in Tampa Bay, he searches me out in the hotel to have a word with me. I can feel the waves of disappointment rolling off him.

“Look, I know I overreacted,” I tell him. “I’ve had time to think about it and calm down.” Sort of. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to do better.”

“There are times we need to do things to send a message. That wasn’t one of them.”

“I know. Believe me. Uncle Mark and I already talked about this.”

Uncle Mark has calmed down from last night, but he’s still pissed that my penalties lost us the game.

“It won’t happen again,” I add glumly. I have to make sure of that.

Tonight I’m watching the game from the goddamn press box with Brando, who’s out with a bum ankle. I’ve got a cardboard cup of coffee in my hand and it’s all I can do to keep from crushing it, my fingers flexing with anger and frustration, wishing I were down on the ice. Wish they had something stronger than coffee in there.

Dad passes by on his way to the visiting management box and stops to speak to Brando about his ankle. To me, he’s Dad; to Brando, he’s the team owner. Brando even calls him Mr. Wynn. I still feel Dad’s displeasure. But hey, no one’s more pissed at me than I am at myself.

I watch Sokolov from the Lightning get possession of the puck and skate in on net. He fucking undresses Johnny and scores a goal that has the arena exploding. The coffee cup dents in my hands and my teeth grind together.

Brando and I exchange unhappy looks.

“Bad turnover,” he says mildly.

“No shit.”

We lose again, three–one, not a great way to start off after the Christmas break. We’re going home and I know what I have to do to make things better.

25

TAYLOR

“What the hellwas that fight about?”

I know that’s not a great way to greet JP after he’s been away for a few days and I missed him, and he probably feels like shit about getting suspended, but I was so furious when that happened. I was watching the game and I actually jumped up off the couch and stood in front of the TV with my heart lodged in my throat.

“You punched him in the face for no reason!”

JP’s face is rigid, his jaw set. “Yep. No reason at all.”

I pause and narrow my eyes. “Are you being sarcastic?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes you just gotta have a good throw down.”

I toss my hands up in the air. “No, you don’t! What the hell, I thought you were trying to stay out of fights!”

“Well, I failed. As usual.” His bitter tone makes me flinch. “And apparently you’re pissed about that.”

I blink. I kind of am, but . . . “I don’t like it when you fight.”

“It’s part of the game.”

I close my eyes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have started this conversation as soon as you walked in. I was upset about the fight, but I’m not that mad. Come in. I’ll get you a beer.”

“I can’t stay.”

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