Page 3 of Grudge Puck
Chapter 2
Pest
Beau Bradford
Chelsea Piers Practice Facility, mid-morning.
Me and the rest of the Blizzard players knelt on one knee at center ice while Coach wrapped up his game plan for tomorrow night's game against the New York Scouts.
“Just like we've been practicing all season long: be strong on the puck, be fast in transition. Get pucks on net and keep bodies in front. Let's come ready to do battle, boys, and start this road trip off with a W.”
We nodded and grunted with determination.
Coach clapped his stick on the ice. “Alright. Hit the showers.”
We popped up and made our way off the ice, but Coach grabbed the back of my jersey and held me back.
“Bradford.”
“Sup coach?”
“I'm matching you up against Dave Leroux tomorrow night.”
Coach apparently didn't have anything more to say. He slapped his palm against my shoulder pad, and I knew exactly the message he was trying to convey.
Here's the deal with Leroux. He's a solid two-way player that plays a heady game. He's not supremely talented, offensively speaking. But with his vision of the game? He doesn't need a world-class shot or stick-skills. Players like him anticipate the play. They have a habit of appearing in the right place at the right time. Guys with his hockey IQ can make a very good living in this league.
And after this past off-season, Leroux is set up for life. He just inked a 7-year, $6.5 million contract extension. Fans and media pundits who don't trulygethockey bleated on and on formonthsabout how that contract was a “massive over-payment” that was going to “cripple the team financially for years.”
They're wrong.
They'redeadwrong, in fact.
But that doesn't matter to me. It's not my job to cajole Leroux and ease his mind and tell him to ignore the haters, and let him know that I think he's actually a great player who is worth every cent.
In fact, my job is the opposite. Because tomorrow night, my assignment is to get Leroux off his game. And all those New York fans who screeched about what a terrible deal they got with Leroux have already done my work for me.
They pierced his armor, and now I've got an easy opening to work with—to jam my hand into that gaping hole in his chest and claw and twist and pull at whatever meat and sinew I can wrap my fingers around.
Because that's the kind of playerIam: a pest. I make a living by getting under the skin of better players. My goal, to throw them off their game. To trash them, physically and mentally, until they're too broken down to skate or think straight.
In other words, Coach was just asking me to do my job: to be a complete pain in Leroux's ass.
I smirked. “You got it, Coach.”
With that, we parted. I shoved the door to the dressing room open, where all my rowdy teammates were joking and laughing and tearing off their sweaty equipment.
“Sup boys!” I boomed, making my presence known just as I always do.
A chorus greeted me: “Beau.” “'Ey Beau!” “Sup Bradford.”
I took my spot at my locker stall, right between my linemates: winger Vinny DeMarco and our captain, center Hunter Rockwell.
Vinny was busy staring into his glowing cell phone.
“What're you looking at there, Vinny?” I asked, peering over his shoulder.
With the flick of a wrist, Vinny scrolled through an endless page filled with cute girls. I recognized the app, MeatMarket, since I use it religiously myself.
