Page 26 of Delayed Offsides

“No idea,” I snap, keeping my head down, telling myself not to look up. Seven fucking days and I’ve let her dictate my moods. No more. I’m done with this shit. If she didn’t have the decency to call me back, her supposed best friend, fuck that shit.

* * *

With minutes leftto play in the first period, I eye Senators’ center. I hate the guy, and I don’t even know why. Everything he does or says to me rubs me the wrong way. Usually I only see the guy a few times a year, but it’s added up over the years, and my hatred is at an all-time high. Or maybe I’m lying to myself, and the reason I hate him is that he has a thing for Callie. Here’s another fun fact for you. Their center, Walker, when I was drafted to Chicago, guess who they traded to get me? Walker. That, my friends, creates bad blood from the start. But it wasn’t until last year that I found out Callie and he had a thing going on back in the day. Every time he’s in town, they hook up. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t bother me. But tonight, yeah, it fuckin’ bothers me. And I take it out on Walker because I fucking can.

I look over at Mase as we sit on the bench, waiting for the shift change. “Sometimes I just want to barrel into that bench and knock that guy out.”

Mase ribs me, chewing on his mouthpiece. “Do it!”

“And create a power play, no thanks.” He knows I’m smarter than that.

When our shift is up again, I line up and glance at my boys behind me. It’s then I decide to be a true asshole to this Walker guy.

“Have you scored yet this season?” I pace around him, both of us refusing to get into position yet as the linesman urges us forward.

“Any day now, Orting,” the linesman to my left snaps.

Walker rolls his eyes, bumping into my shoulder. I notice Mase out of the corner of my eye, glaring at Walker. Nobody touches me on the ice without answering to Mase.

“Go back to the minors, Orting,” Walker says, smiling. “They’re waitin’ for ya.”

I grin and circle around him once more. “They’ll be waitin’ a long time. Maybe you can save me a seat though, since you’ll be there before me.”

“Fuck you!” On any given day, I think I hear “fuck you” at least twenty times.

Walker shoves at me but doesn’t make contact. He’s expecting me to hit him. And when I do nothing but smile, it throws him off, makes his brows scrunch in confusion.

“What are you doing? Trying to scare me? I didn’t even flinch.” Now I’m trying to provoke him. If he throws down his gloves, it’s on. I’ll fight this guy in a heartbeat, just to let Callie know where I stand with my feelings on this. “You oughta be embarrassed.”

“All right,” the linesman barks at us. “That’s enough. Knock this shit off.”

Okay, I’m not going to fight him. At least not yet.

Remy holds his stick across his thighs, hunched forward, watching Walker and me, ready for the drop. Mase and Travis doing the same. My eyes sweep to the linesman and his knuckles. When the white fades, I slap at the puck, get the angle on it, and shake away the pressure on the left side. There are five minutes to go in the first period, and we need to score. We hold on, but play is sloppy. Okay.I’msloppy. I know one thing.

I’m shooting up the ice, chasing the puck when it hits the boards, and then I’m checked by Walker. Only this isn’t an ordinary boarding. Motherfucker nails me so hard I see stars. I go down immediately, my face smashed into the ice. I sit here on my knees, holding my mouth as blood pours onto the ice. Swirling my tongue over my lip, I realize it’s busted. Split right down the middle.

Looking up, I see the hit against Walker before I peel myself from the ice. Mase checks him from behind. You don’t level a center and not expect to get your ass handed to you by a defenseman.

Smiling, I skate over to the bench with a towel the linesman hands to me pressed to my mouth. I’ve taken a good chunk out of my lip.

All the guys pat my back. Coach O’Brien raises an eyebrow, his way of checking on me. He isn’t the type of coach to hover over his players. Instead, you get nods and raised eyebrows.

I wave him off and watch as Mase skates toward the locker room as there’s only one minute left to play in the period.

The Senators get to chirping at me on the bench, which isn’t a surprise.

“Keep your head up.” I grin at them and then spit the blood pooling in my mouth at the three Senators talking shit. “You’re fuckin’ next, boys.”

From then on, I keep my focus on the jumbotron and the blood pooling in my mouth. If I look at Callie, I’ll probably fuckin’ lose it.

When we come back out for the second period, Remy looks over at me when play stops at the crease. “Who’s that with Callie?”

I stare emotionless at the ice, not wanting anyone, especially Remy, to see my annoyance. “Don’t care.”

Why he’s asking this during the game isn’t anything new. He’s rarely talking about the game during the actual game. He’ll pop off with random shit you never expect. Like what color curtains he should buy. Random shit. I’m utterly surprised Remy is as good as he is on the ice because it seems his mind is never fully on the ice.

I give Remy a nudge, ignoring his questions. “Ready for my trick play?”

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