Page 21 of Dirty As Puck
Jake notices everything. Always has.
“Focus on the game,” I tell him. “Vancouver’s going to be aggressive tonight. They need this win more than we do.”
Jake takes the hint and changes the subject to hockey, but I can still feel Rochelle watching from across the room. When I risk another glance, she’s interviewing Walsh about team chemistry, but her attention keeps drifting to me.
Stop looking at her. Stop thinking about how she felt in your arms. Focus on hockey.
Pre-game preparation is usually my sanctuary. It’s a chance to get my head right, channel my energy, prepare for sixty minutes of controlled violence. But today, I can’t seem to find my focus.
I’m lacing my skates when I hear Rochelle’s voice in the hallway outside the locker room, talking to Lockwood about my playing style.
“Kai seems to play with a lot of anger,” she’s saying. “Is that something you’ve noticed? The way he channels his emotions on the ice?”
Anger issues. That’s the angle she’s going with?
Lockwood gives her the standard diplomatic response about intensity being part of defensive play, but I can hear the calculation in Rochelle’s follow-up questions. She’s building a narrative, and it’s not a flattering one.
She’s doing her job. This is what journalists do.
But it still pisses me off. Last night, she was kissing me like her life depended on it. Today, she’s asking my teammates about my issues.
Fucking hell.
Coach Williams calls for our pre-game meeting, and I force myself to focus on the game plan. Vancouver’s power play, their key defensive pairings, the tendencies of their goaltender. Hockey. Simple, straightforward, violent hockey.
But when we take the ice for warm-ups, I can see Rochelle in the press box, and the sight of her makes my jaw clench. I hold steady on my skates, but hold my damn hockey stick like it’s the problem.
The Vancouver crowd is hostile from the moment we step on the ice. They’re still angry about our last meeting here, when I put their captain into the boards hard enough to keep him out for three games. The hit was clean, but Vancouver fans have long memories.
“Morrison sucks!” someone screams from the stands. “You’re a disgrace to hockey!”
Meh.
The opening faceoff is barely over before I’m throwing my first hit of the night––a bone-jarring check on Vancouver’s leadingscorer that sends him crashing into the corner boards. The crowd erupts in boos, and I feel that familiar surge of adrenaline that comes with being the villain.
This is what I’m good at. This is who I am.
I play the first period like a man possessed, throwing hits that echo through the arena, fighting for every inch of ice like it’s game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. The Vancouver players start giving me extra room, which creates space for my teammates to work.
During the first intermission, Jake skates over to me. “You’re playing angry tonight. More than usual.”
“Vancouver brings out the worst in me.”
“It just may have something to do with a certain reporter who’s been asking questions about your psychological state?”
He’s always poking and prodding.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Lockwood mentioned she was asking about anger management. Thought you should know.”
The second period is even more physical than the first. I’m hunting for hits, looking for opportunities to make Vancouver players regret stepping on the ice. The crowd gets uglier with every check I throw, and the Vancouver players start taking liberties when the ref isn’t looking.
Midway through the third period, with the game tied 2-2, Vancouver’s power forward tries to run me through the corner boards. He’s bigger than me, but I see him coming and brace for impact. The hit reverberates through my bones, but I stay on my feet and immediately drop my gloves.
The fight lasts thirty seconds. It’s long enough for me to land three solid punches before the linesmen break it up. The Vancouver crowd is screaming for my blood, but I can see Rochelle in the press box, watching intently, probably taking notes about my “violent tendencies.”
With two minutes left in the game, I intercept a pass at our blue line and start a rush up ice. The Vancouver defenseman comes at me hard, trying to separate me from the puck with a hip check. I slip past him and find myself alone with their goaltender.
