Page 52 of Puck, Marry, Kill

“You’ve been moping around for months, ruining the playoffs last season and barely holding it together this year. For what?” Anderson shoots back at Kipson, thumping his fist on the table. “Some bitch left you. Boo fucking hoo, man. And if the depression wasn’t bad enough, now this prick”—he points a thick finger at me—“has you wanting to fight everyone. If you’d kept your shit together like you were supposed to, he wouldn’t even be here!”

“I don’t want to fight everyone,” Kipson corrects, leaning forward. “Just you.”

His cold glare is locked on Anderson. I’d bet he can’t even see the rest of the guys at the table. He’s definitely not aware of the three guys between them who have scooted their chairs back to be at the ready if they actually go after one another. Only three because I’m on Kipson’s other side and I will not be stopping a damn thing if he goes after Anderson. I consider it well deserved.

“You know the rules—no distractions.”

“Sofia wasn’t a distraction. She was myWife!” Kipson roars as he slams his palms to the table, making the water glasses and cutlery bounce. And oh, we’ve got the attention of everyone in the place now, from the staff to the well-dressed diners.

“Wasbeing the operative word, there,” Anderson taunts, playing Russian roulette with his life.

“Mywife. Do you have any idea what that means?” he demands. “Of course you don’t. How could you? You can’t even remember the name of the last woman you fucked.” Judgment drips through his tone, the words harshly spit out with an up and down sneering glare.

“Daphne.” Anderson flashes an arrogant smirk of victory. But is he even telling the truth? Who knows.

“Congratulations. Another empty, meaningless fuck in your empty, meaningless life.” Kipson rolls his eyes and Anderson chuckles, unaffected by the accusation, until Kipson coldly spits out, “If I gave a shit about you at all, I’d pity you.”

Anderson balks. That one stung. I think Kipson plainly stating his complete indifference to him might be the straw to break the camel’s back and actually cause Anderson’s bravado to drop a few notches. “I don’t need your pity. I’m doing just fine. Better than you, for damn sure.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” The fire is dying in Kipson, replaced with his too familiar detachment. “But I’m empty right now because I knew love and lost it. You’re empty because no one has ever loved you. We’re not the same.”

Well, daaaamn. Kipson’s got some self-awareness in that thick skull of his. Who knew? Not me.

“I don’t need this bullshit,” Anderson announces, shoving back from the table. “Fix your shit or bench yourself so you don’t fuck the rest of us over,” he orders Kipson. Turning toward me, he points accusingly, clearly hurt but disguising it with anger. “And you, leave me the fuck alone.”

“So that’s a maybe for the hair braiding on Sunday?” I taunt.

“Fuck all of you,” Anderson hisses and then stomps away. At the host stand, I hear him tell the maître d’ to send his steak up to his room. At least he’ll eat well tonight. We do have a game tomorrow, and I’d rather him not play at a calorie deficit.

“That went well,” I declare, stroking my day’s worth of stubble as I nod approvingly. “Could’ve done with a bit more bromance and a touch less blowup, but not bad overall. It’s a solid start.”

Almost a dozen sets of eyes turn to me, some with humor, others with shock, a few with concerns about my sanity.

Pacholek is first to make fresh steps on the groundwork I’ve laid. “I’m sorry about you and Sofia,” he tells Kipson. “If I can do anything to help ...” He trails off, but the offer is an important one.

Kipson blinks, staring blankly at Pacholek for a long moment, where I wonder if he’s going to tell Pacholek to keep his wife’s name out of his mouth too. But after a deep breath, he says, “Do you know that’s the first time any of you have told me that?”

He scans the group of guys sitting around the table, several of them ducking their heads and unable to meet his eyes. The pall of that hangs in the air, a pain that predates my arrival, but the past needs to be dealt with so that we can move forward as a team with a future worth a damn.

“I didn’t know what to say,” Pacholek explains, “but I should’ve at least said ‘I’m sorry.’ I apologize for not doing that.”

Holy shit! I’m a fucking genius!

I should take up sports psychology once I retire from the ice because I’m fucking good at this shit. We’re having group therapy, right here inthe restaurant. I’m tempted to ask,And how did that make you feel?just to see what happens.

“Yeah, you fucking should’ve. Or maybe not been such a dick to her in the first place,” Kipson snarls.

Okay, maybe my next career consideration was a bit premature. But progress is a good thing, even if it’s slow.

“We weren’t trying to be dicks. It’s just how it is,” Sabine says resolutely.

This is an important step that I don’t want to mess up. Pacholek is on my side and doing better, but Sabine has been Anderson’s bro for a long time. I lean forward, getting Sabine’s attention. “How itwas. Just because it’s always been that way, doesn’t mean it was right. Look at the fallout.” I gesture to Kipson. “Nor does it mean it has to keep being like that. Change can be good, like scratching that itch you can’t quite reach.” I mime trying to scratch my spine and when I can’t reach, I tilt toward Kipson with a grunted, “Little help here?”

He smacks my back, hard. Coughing, I grin at him, taking the win.

“So what, you’re saying we all need to find WAGs, like yesterday?” Lavoie asks, seeming confused at the concept of a committed relationship.

I roll my eyes, inhaling for patience. “No, fuckwit. I’m saying that having a life off the ice that’s fulfilling makes you a better player, not a distracted one.”