Page 9 of Slapshot Obsession
I examine the thought as I line up against Vaugh for a face-off.
Taryn is constantly on my mind. If I’m not with her, I’m thinking about her. Even now, when I should concentrate on my teammates and the puck.
Winning the puck from Vaughn isn’t easy. He’s an extremely talented center, but he’s still a little green. At least compared to me. In a few years, though, I’m sure we’ll face each other on NHL ice, and at that point, all bets are off.
With the puck practically glued to my stick, I’m on a breakaway toward Davis’s goal.
The only thing between me and the goalie is a six feet two D-man who hurt my girl. Who thought that he could ask her to choose him and not put her first, as she deserves, in the same breath?
If I really wanted to, I could dodge him again, just like I did a minute ago.
Mack is ready to receive the puck on my left, wide open. A flick of my wrist is all it would take to give him the perfect assist.
But I don’t. Like a bull who just saw a red flag waving in front of him, I stare at the knight helmet on the front of his jersey. I completely ignore the puck and instead charge him just like a bull would.
I lower my head and ram into him, digging my shoulder into his protective gear and slamming my teammate against the boards.
We hit the plexiglass with a thud that makes more noise than it’s capable of causing any real damage.
I might be mad at Nash, but I’m not stupid enough to risk injuring him or myself.
This is more about pinning him down, about showing dominance than about teaching him a lesson.
I keep him there for a couple of seconds, pushing harderwhen I realize that I caught him by surprise and he got the wind knocked out of him.
“Motherfucker,” I growl before letting go of him.
Was I wondering if I’m in love with Taryn? I guess I just got my answer. I didn’t want to hurt Nash because he wants her too, but because he hurt her.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Anger replaces the initial shock on Nash’s face. “We’re teammates. Keep this shit for UCLA.”
If a look could kill, my glare would turn Nash into mash. “If she isn’t your priority, how fucking dare you ask her to choose you? Asshole.”
There’s no need to explain who I’m talking about. The fucker knows. He drops his gloves and helmet. “Mind your own business, Thomas. My relationship with Taryn doesn’t concern you.”
I want nothing but to make him hurt like he hurt her. “Fuck you, Belkin. You have no right to even look at her unless you treat her right.” I drop my own gloves and drive my fist back, ready to hit him. But a rubber missile flies past us and hits the plexiglass two inches away from Nash’s head.
The puck bounces off, and the shrill noise of Coach’s whistle makes us both freeze like deer caught in front of headlights.
“What the fuck was that?” Coach Harrison drops the stick he just used for a shot that would give Mack’s a run for his money and yells at us. “I’ve seen my fair share of fights on the ice and I don’t give two shits when you hit your opponents. But whatever the problem is between you two, knock it the fuck off. Right now.”
I nod, aware that Coach will probably make us bothhurt more than we could have hurt each other if he had let us fight.
“I didn’t do anything. I was just doing my job when he rammed into me. You?—”
Nash stops talking when he sees the vein popping in the middle of Coach’s forehead.
“I don’t give a fuck who started it.” Coach Harrison barks. “You don’t fight your teammates. If you have any problems with each other, you talk about it like the two grown ass men you both should be. You already risk injuring yourselves every time you step on the ice. Getting hurt because you can’t settle your differences with words is immature, and I won’t stand for it.”
There’s a beat of silence as all our teammates are looking at us.
“Do you two want to hurt? I can arrange that. In fact, I’ll make you all hurt as a reminder. Suicide drills. The first who pukes cleans up after everyone else.” He then smiles at the cameras that have caught the whole exchange. “Let’s show our viewers how you take a bunch of little bitches and turn them into men. Maybe for the lucky ones, into decent NHL players. Go!”
As Coach blows his whistle, I catch a few murderous looks from most of my teammates.
Mack and Tucker are the only exceptions.
“What the fuck came over you, Col?” Tucker is partly amused, partly concerned. “Usually Mack is the one who picks fights, even though he does it during games and not with our teammates.”
