Page 24 of Crush
I smiled. “If your dad wants to keep me around, yeah.”
“Well, I hope he does.”
“Then you better get crackin' on those proofs, girl.”
“Okay, okay. Fine.” She slid out of the stool and took her backpack to her room.
Chapter 8
Shea
Sure, hockey's a violent sport. Just not quite like it used to be.
These days, fighting is frowned upon, which has had a series of unintended consequences on the game. There used to be a codein hockey. A respect among warriors. Back in the day, when you threw an objectionable hit, you had someone from the other team wanting to square off with you. You had to fight to clear your name and restore balance to the game.
Afraid of getting your face caved in by that hulking enforcer? Then maybe you should think twice before you slew-foot our star player.
That might sound primitive to most people, but I don't care. That was the type of hockey I grew up playing. And you know what? It was a system that worked. It kept guys honest. The game felt calmer, safer, less on-edge than it does today.
But nature abhors a vacuum. And now that fighting is frowned upon, there's a new breed of player in the league: the pest. He's a guy who skates around the ice, running his mouth all night, throwing sneaky elbows to the face, butt-ends to the ribs, cheap shots behind the play, you name it. All when the ref isn't looking, of course. And he willneveranswer the bell, because the fact that he doesn't fight only pisses the opposition off more.
I've watched the game change a lot over the years. I've had to rein in my style of game, just like the other tough guys have, and let things slide that we never would've let slide ten or fifteen years ago.
Seeing Brynn snatch the phone away from that rude fan reminded me of that fact. There was a time when I was younger, meaner, and I didn't take any shit on the ice from anybody.
I'm not sure when I started to lose that edge. I suppose it happened slowly, day by day. Age had something to do with it too, I'm sure. Seeing this game as mycareerrather than mydreamplayed a big part too. Whatever the exact cause was—somewhere down the line, it happened.
Tonight, though, I wasn't going to stand for it.
And the goalie is the one guy on the team that I willnotlet you mess with.
So when our goalie, Ilya, pounced on a loose puck to freeze the play, and Kevin Kasdorf kept whacking at Ilya's hands to try to make him lose the puck—evenafterthe ref blew the whistle—we had a serious problem.
Kasdorf is the Calgary Fire's resident shit-stirrer. The exact sort of gutless clown that I just described to a tee. And I'd already warned him about his extracurricular activities too manytimes to count tonight.
It was time to take out the garbage.
I dropped my shoulder and, with an explosive step forward, powered my momentum straight through Kasdorf's sternum. It was a hard hit, and Kasdorf would've hit the ice regardless—but the way he turned into a rag doll, arms and legs flailing as his limp body sailed through the air, was so shameful it turned my stomach. It didn't matter to him if he looked weak; all he cared about was selling the call. Not a shred of self-respect in that kid's body.
Pathetic.
Kasdorf's teammates grabbed hold of me, and we pushed and shoved, trading gloved shots to the face. Desperate to restore order, the refs blew their whistles again, loud and long and shrill.
Kasdorf acted like I'd really rung his bell. He slowly staggered to his knees—until he realized that neither ref had signaled for a penalty against me. Then, the pissy little bastardsuddenlymade a miraculous recovery. He jumped up to his skates and rushed over to the closest ref, angrily screeching about how I should've gotten a penalty for hitting him after the whistle.
I broke free from the scrum and coasted by Kasdorf. “We can settle this right now, Kasdorf.”
But fighting wasn't an option for him and we both knew it. He ignored me, pleading his case to the refs instead.
“You can dish it out but you can't take it, eh Kasdorf? You'd rather run to Mommy and Daddy and let them solve all your problems?”
That finally got his attention. “Look at you, Grandpa! You're really movin' tonight! Did the doctors tweak your meds? Haven't seen you with this much pep in your step since '02!”
“Talk is cheap, Kasdorf. Drop the gloves and let's go.”
He cackled. “You're not worth my time, Ellis. The game has passed you by.”
My nostrils flared. “Big talk from a plug that won't fight.”
