Page 4 of Delayed Offsides

They drop gloves, and I think Mase wants to pick them up after that and walk away. Only he doesn’t. No fucking way. Still circling, each one daring that first punch, knowing it will result in a penalty. Lapanta throws the first punch, landing on Mase’s jaw. I cringe, knowing that had to have stung. They dance for a minute, and though Mase defends himself, it isn’t an even match. Lapanta is a beast and has Mase bleeding all over the fucking place, a spray of blood from his nose splashed on the pure white ice. The crowd goes crazy in response, roaring to life.

“Easy there.” The ref, who Mase just knocked in the jaw, snaps as he’s trying to break up the fight.

“Well, fuck you then. Eat it.” Mase gets in the lineman’s face, heading to the penalty box, with Lapanta trailing behind him, escorted by his own linesman. “Call the fuckin’ penalties and that shit wouldn’t happen.”

“We’ve already been over that, Masen,” the linesman defends, rubbing his jaw. “I didn’t see it.”

“Well, I’m still mad about it. You didn’t fuckin’ call it.” Mase shrugs, opening the door to the penalty box where two more of our players sit. “Whatcha guys doin’ in here?” He laughs, his mood turning around as blood pours from his mouth. “Care if I join the party?”

Doesn’t matter these days what’s happening around him. Mase is always in a good mood. I think Ami has a lot to do with that. She’s good for him. Keeps him aggressive on the ice fighting for his brothers, but he’s quick to let stuff go.

With five minutes left in the second period and finally out of the penalty box, Mase sits next to me on the bench with a towel held to his face. “Want me to lay him out for you, bud?” I give him a look like I’m serious, but deep down, he knows I’m not. I’ve been in seven fights in my entire four-year NHL career. I’m not on the ice to fight. I’m there to score goals and make plays happen. If you rub me the wrong way, yeah, I’ll certainly defend myself against some of these savages. I’m no pussy. Although I don’t like fighting. I hate the sight of blood and the idea of hitting someone in the head makes me nauseous.

Don’t repeat that. Like ever. I’ll deny it.

Coach looks over at us, his face a constant state of indifference, checking out Mase to see if he’s all right.

“Yeah, right.” Mase blows me off, and he seemed concerned that I didn’t think he was serious. No way I’d go after Lapanta unless I had a fucking death wish. And I don’t.

“Listen, Mase.” I’m contemplative as I speak, trying to get a rise out of him. “I would fight anyone for you.” We both look up when Remy slams a guy into the boards and scoot down the bench, getting ready for the line change. “Well, not Remy or Travis. Or Tyler. But maybe Ryan?” I nod, okay with my choice. “Fuckin’ eh, I’d definitely fight that son of a bitch for you.”

“Reassuring, thanks,” Mase mumbles, tossing the towel aside and barreling over the wall with me.

“Thought so.” I pat his shoulder.

The Predators, as they usually do, start out quickly in the third period, moving the puck into our zone and keeping it there for the first few minutes. They don’t have the advantage for long before I’m making the plays. The game turns and moves to center ice, where I have the puck but can’t control it the way I need to. During a game we have advantages that carry over to our personalities for the most part. Our personalities often define who we are on the ice. Mase, when he’s challenged on the ice, he answers back with his physicality. He is a big solid guy, around two-twenty and six-feet-three-inches of well-defined muscle.

Me, a sometimes scrappy, street-style center who doesn’t rely on my height or physical ability, I like to shove it down your throat with speed and accuracy and let you know just how good we really are.

And that’s how I play the last period. With thirty seconds left to play, I stuff one in behind my back and high in the right pocket to take home the win, one to four.

“Nice game, bud.” Mase claps his hand over my shoulder after the game as we grab our bags and head for the car.

“Hey…” Ryan catches up, asking us, “Did you see the security outside?”

“Yeah, what’s up with that?” I ask, walking with Mase. Remy’s behind us, his phone in hand, laughing at some text message.

“A lot of crime around here recently,” Mase adds, shrugging it off.

It isn’t a surprise that Chicago had a crime wave lately, and the area surrounding the United Center has been hit hard. Vacant lots, abandoned buildings, all environments that lent well to crime. The crime around the arena is anything from car jackings to the occasional mugging. With time, the criminals are getting braver, and it isn’tifsomething bad is going to happen butwhen.

I teasingly wrap my arm around Mase. “Walk me out.”

He rolls his eyes, walking with me. “Don’t I always?”

“Yeah, but tonight I mean it.” I motion to Shelby, our smallest guy on the team who’s behind Remy. “Come on, lil’ fella. You don’t wanna get jacked.”

Shelby shakes his head but follows. “You think he’ll protect me if we get jumped?” He rolls his eyes, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “I’m safer with the fucking mascot!”

Mase bursts out laughing. “He has a really good point there, Orting.”

“Fuck you, guys,” Shelby defends. “I can throw down when needed.”

I can, and they know it, but like I said, these guys are my boys. They’re here to give me shit.

I catch up with Mase at his car. “What time does our flight leave in the morning?”

“Seven. I swear to God, if you’re not up and in the lobby by five, we’re leaving without you.”

---