Page 92 of Puck to the Heart
Idid this. Hurt someone so badly.Again.
In my early twenties, I hit a final growth spurt, leaving me long and lanky. But after my first NHL season, with a fuckton of food and even more workouts, I finally filled out my frame. I also ended up with a complete lack of awareness of how to move in the new, larger space I took up.
Iwashuge, there was no denying it. Before, my lack of bulk allowed for a larger margin to evade and easier maneuvers around and away. The additional fifty pounds essentially turned me into a battering ram on skates. And those skates meant I moved at speeds nearing thirty miles an hour. If the other guy was moving at the same speed, well…I was less likely to come out of the deal getting bashed.
The nickname spread after the first couple of games in my second season. Beforethegame, there were a few close calls, but nothing too serious while I was learning how to move with the added bulk. More than a few fights started because of it.
The first time it happened, I vomited. At least I made it to the side and upchucked in a helmet.
The winger had lain sostill. The game resumed once EMS carried him off on a stretcher. Later, I learned he had a concussion, a couple broken ribs, and a shattered leg.
I visited him in the hospital before he went home, and it was horrifying, seeing what I’d done.
I resolved then to be… better. But the name stuck.
Seeing it unfold before himagain, all because of my carelessness.
It made me sick. It made me want to rip off all my gear and leave the ice forever. But I couldn’t. I had to be better. Had to be an example.
The arena sounds flickered out, replaced only by the sound of my breathing as I spun back, dropping to my knees and sliding to the injured player.
Michaels, according to his jersey, was dazed, but his body parts all pointed in the right direction, which was promising after taking a hit hard enough to send him flying. I rose and offered his hand and hauled Michaels to his feet.
“You good, man?”
Still off-kilter, he blinked but nodded. One of his teammates skated over, and together, we guided Michaels to the rails where EMS joined us and led him to sit.
A wall of noise slammed into my ears when I skated back to the bench.
Applause?
I glanced to the screen to find a replay of me helping Michaels off the ice. It was bizarre; I was only helping the dude I’d injured. It wasn’t like I ended a war or solved world hunger or somethingmomentous.
At intermission, we all piled into the locker room, sweat-drenched and adrenaline-high.
Allen shoulder-checked me as he passed, hard enough to spin us around.
“What the fuck?” I turned, glaring at my teammate, barely able to keep from knocking him into the wall. Keeping my hands off him was a testament to how much I’d changed this season. Any other time, I would’ve put him through a wall.
“Me? What about you, Bash?” Allen, the idiot, rammed his helmet into my chest.
A muscle twitched below my left eye. I couldnotlose it. “What do you mean?”
“You helped Michaels off the ice!” Allen glared and squared up likehewas about to shovemeinto the wall.
“Yeah, and I’m pretty sure I gave him a concussion. It was the least I could do.”
“You’re turning into some candy-ass?—”
“I’m going to stop you right there.” Coach Olsen stepped between us. “Back up, Allen, Wilder.”
I took a step back as I yanked off my gloves, not paying attention to where they landed when I threw them.
“He shouldn’thelpthe other team, and he missed the fucking shot,” muttered Allen. The whole locker room heard him anyway.
“Wilder is acting captain, and he made the right call.”
“Maybe he shouldn’t be.” Allen’s grumbled response only met my ears.
