Page 60 of Puck'n Bully
I pull off my jersey, feeling my ribs complaining as well. I wince but don’t complain. Mitchikov took far more hits than me, trying to defend me on the ice.
“That last period was brutal, though,” Aminov, our second defenseman adds. “We couldn’t do a thing to stop those fuckers from scoring all those goals.”
“It’s all my fault,” Tyler says in a broken voice. Tears run down his cheeks as he silently sobs.
Everyone exchanges glances but no one says anything. It’s the only merciful thing to do when we all collectively agree we lost due to Tyler’s cowardly stance as the goalie.
Someone claps a hand on my shoulder, making me grit my teeth to stop a curse.
“We’re going to Dahlia’s tonight,” Mitchikov says in a quiet voice. “You want to come with us, Bastian?”
“No. I’m meeting my dad.”
“Oh. That man in the black suit who was standing beside Coach Sullivan...was that your dad?” he asks, staring at me closely.
“Yeah, that’s him,” I say, shoving my stuff inside a bag.
Surprise flits through my teammate’s eyes. It’s common for friends and family to come to our games but my father never showed up until that game last season. Back then, no one noticed him, so I didn’t have to answer any questions.
“I’ll go ahead and shower,” I say, grabbing a towel from my bag. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, all right?”
Mitchikov looks like he wants to say something more but I don’t give him time to ask me anything. Turning away, I walk toward the shower area.
While my teammates gather together, sharing their misery, I shower in silence. I’ve never been chatty but it always felt good to hang out with them after the games.
Now that my dad’s here, I’m going to be denied that last drop of warmth too.
After the shower, I change into fresh clothes.
My teammates pay me no attention as they talk between themselves in low voices, drowning in the misery of losing the game. No one looks up as I walk out of the locker room and head toward the exit doors.
A cold breeze blows in my face as I step outside. While most of the crowd has left the grounds, some fans are still hanging around. I look among them and soon, find a lone figure standing away from everyone.
My dad notices me too and gestures for me to follow him.
Pulling up the hood of my jacket, I lower my head and walk after him.
Dad leads me away from the lingering crowd and moves toward a row of trees on the far side of the grounds. He doesn’t want any witnesses while we “talk”.
“You were pathetic tonight,” Dad sneers the moment I’m close enough to him.
I stand still, bracing myself for harsher words.
“Have you forgotten what happens if you lose?” he asks, slapping me across the face.
The impact is hard enough to make me stumble on my feet. Balling my hands into tight fists, I stay quiet because it never mattered if I won or lost a game. Slaps and kicks were all I ever got from him anyway. But I don’t tell him that.
“You embarrass me,” he says, his words cutting into me. He grabs a chunk of my hair and pulls me closer. His whiskey-soaked breath is hot on my face as he glares at me. “I spent my life training you and coaching you. And for what? You’ll always be a useless little loser who can’t even win a game.”
My teeth clench together but I don’t say a word. He wants me to react, to explain how I did my best, that I alone couldn’t make my team win.
He wants me to say all these things just so he can scoff at me and say I’m making excuses to mask my failure.
So, I don’t move or say a word. It’s the quickest way to get this over with anyway.
Before I know it, he punches me in the gut.
I double over, gasping, but Dad doesn’t let me fall. Grabbing the back of my hoodie, he hits me again.
