Zack
Page 77
Claude and Dietra immediately jumped up, threw the gloves down, and started fighting it out.
My eyes stayed pinned on Max, who rolled on the ice in pain as he tried to clutch his way past the bulky pads to grab at his knee. I knew it was bad. I knew he was coming off the ice. I knew, before the training staff even reached him, that one of the assistant managers was running back to the locker room to get Ryker.
It was definitely Max’s knee, and whatever it was was severe enough that he could not get off the ice without assistance. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes there are injuries terrible enough to warrant a stretcher, and this just happened to be one of those times.
Ryker stepped out onto the ice a few minutes ago and is in the process of stretching. He’s ice cold, having been sitting in the locker room and watching the game on a TV monitor. He’ll be stiff, and without having been caught up in the ferocity of play out on the ice, he won’t be as invested.
Not that his heart won’t be in it, but his mind won’t be as involved.
Simple fact of backup goalies.
We are so fucked.
And to make matters worse, because Claude hooked a breakaway player, Atlanta is going to have a penalty shot on Ryker. They’re going to have an opportunity here really soon to seal this game.
As they lift Max to the stretcher and start to strap him down, I skate over to Ryker, who has now lifted himself up off the ice from his stretches and is skating in small circles.
He sees me approach and gives me a wry smile. “Not how I wanted to get in the game.”
I put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze as we watch them start to wheel Max away.
“You got this,” I tell him confidently. “You’re a fucking veteran. One of the best goalies in history.”
“Damn straight,” he says back, with a flash of teeth and a confident smile. “Not going to let that puck in.”
“We’ll celebrate over beers when we put these fuckers away,” I counter.
“I’ll be the hero of the century once I seal this up,” he says with a chuckle, and I give him one back.
But then we quiet and get serious, because our banter is born from nervousness and we need to push that aside.
“Seriously,” I tell him as I step in close, put my hand on top of his head, and tap my helmet against his. “You got this.”
“I got it,” he says, and then turns away from me to take his place in front of the net.
—
I need Kate. I don’t want to need Kate. I don’t want to need Kate.
But I need her.
I wait for her while she puts Ben to bed and my mood becomes stormier.
There’s an underlying poison flowing through my veins right now because we lost the game. And we should have lost it. We’ve been playing like shit and I don’t care what any fan or sports announcer says, it’s not fair to put the series loss on Ryker’s shoulders.
The guy hadn’t played in more than a month and was expected to come into the game ice cold and face a penalty shot from one of the better players in the league?
Fucking impossible.
Ryker did his best. He almost had it too, but the puck wobbled, turned end over end, took a hop off the ice, and dribbled in right underneath his pads.
The guy is fucking distraught. He left the arena without a word to anyone, not that many of the guys on the team were trying to talk to him. I know they won’t feel this way after they have a chance to process what happened, but he was getting the brunt of their disappointment in the locker room.
I did what I could. A soft punch to his shoulder after he pulled his equipment off and I said, “Not your fucking fault, man.”
He didn’t respond and I left him alone.
So my dream of a Stanley Cup championship has been destroyed once again and I’m in a downright pissy mood.
It continues to darken because the only way I think it can be made better is for Kate to give herself to me again.
That in and of itself makes me even angrier.
At myself.
That I’ve come to depend on her for something.
It’s not supposed to be this way. I wasn’t supposed to get involved with her. She was supposed to be a fuck and that was all, and yet here I am now, lying in my bed and eagerly anticipating her to walk into my room. To make it all better. To make me forget about every one of my burdens.
And the mere fact that I am depending on her to do this for me has me wallowing in more guilt than I’ve felt since the accident. I feel guilty I’m using her this way, and I feel guilty that I need her in a way that, for some reason, I never really needed Gina. That has me almost buckling in shame, especially since I just could never give Gina what she wanted.
I can’t give it to Kate either, but selfish fuck that I am, I am going to take what she offers me.
“You okay?” I hear from my doorway, and Kate stands there looking at me hesitantly. She’s changed into her little pajama set that I love because it shows all of that beautiful, creamy skin. She’s no longer self-conscious about her body in front of me, as well she shouldn’t be. I’ve had my mouth on every square inch of it.
“No,” I tell her honestly. I know I can’t be honest in all my feelings, but I don’t have a problem admitting that. She needs to know it so she can understand that tonight won’t be hearts and flowers. I need to obliterate the oppressive feelings, and about the only way to do that is fuck my brains out with her until I reach a mind-numbing oblivion.
“What can I do?” she asks as she walks in and shuts the door behind her. She turns the lock as a precaution.
My eyes stayed pinned on Max, who rolled on the ice in pain as he tried to clutch his way past the bulky pads to grab at his knee. I knew it was bad. I knew he was coming off the ice. I knew, before the training staff even reached him, that one of the assistant managers was running back to the locker room to get Ryker.
It was definitely Max’s knee, and whatever it was was severe enough that he could not get off the ice without assistance. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes there are injuries terrible enough to warrant a stretcher, and this just happened to be one of those times.
Ryker stepped out onto the ice a few minutes ago and is in the process of stretching. He’s ice cold, having been sitting in the locker room and watching the game on a TV monitor. He’ll be stiff, and without having been caught up in the ferocity of play out on the ice, he won’t be as invested.
Not that his heart won’t be in it, but his mind won’t be as involved.
Simple fact of backup goalies.
We are so fucked.
And to make matters worse, because Claude hooked a breakaway player, Atlanta is going to have a penalty shot on Ryker. They’re going to have an opportunity here really soon to seal this game.
As they lift Max to the stretcher and start to strap him down, I skate over to Ryker, who has now lifted himself up off the ice from his stretches and is skating in small circles.
He sees me approach and gives me a wry smile. “Not how I wanted to get in the game.”
I put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze as we watch them start to wheel Max away.
“You got this,” I tell him confidently. “You’re a fucking veteran. One of the best goalies in history.”
“Damn straight,” he says back, with a flash of teeth and a confident smile. “Not going to let that puck in.”
“We’ll celebrate over beers when we put these fuckers away,” I counter.
“I’ll be the hero of the century once I seal this up,” he says with a chuckle, and I give him one back.
But then we quiet and get serious, because our banter is born from nervousness and we need to push that aside.
“Seriously,” I tell him as I step in close, put my hand on top of his head, and tap my helmet against his. “You got this.”
“I got it,” he says, and then turns away from me to take his place in front of the net.
—
I need Kate. I don’t want to need Kate. I don’t want to need Kate.
But I need her.
I wait for her while she puts Ben to bed and my mood becomes stormier.
There’s an underlying poison flowing through my veins right now because we lost the game. And we should have lost it. We’ve been playing like shit and I don’t care what any fan or sports announcer says, it’s not fair to put the series loss on Ryker’s shoulders.
The guy hadn’t played in more than a month and was expected to come into the game ice cold and face a penalty shot from one of the better players in the league?
Fucking impossible.
Ryker did his best. He almost had it too, but the puck wobbled, turned end over end, took a hop off the ice, and dribbled in right underneath his pads.
The guy is fucking distraught. He left the arena without a word to anyone, not that many of the guys on the team were trying to talk to him. I know they won’t feel this way after they have a chance to process what happened, but he was getting the brunt of their disappointment in the locker room.
I did what I could. A soft punch to his shoulder after he pulled his equipment off and I said, “Not your fucking fault, man.”
He didn’t respond and I left him alone.
So my dream of a Stanley Cup championship has been destroyed once again and I’m in a downright pissy mood.
It continues to darken because the only way I think it can be made better is for Kate to give herself to me again.
That in and of itself makes me even angrier.
At myself.
That I’ve come to depend on her for something.
It’s not supposed to be this way. I wasn’t supposed to get involved with her. She was supposed to be a fuck and that was all, and yet here I am now, lying in my bed and eagerly anticipating her to walk into my room. To make it all better. To make me forget about every one of my burdens.
And the mere fact that I am depending on her to do this for me has me wallowing in more guilt than I’ve felt since the accident. I feel guilty I’m using her this way, and I feel guilty that I need her in a way that, for some reason, I never really needed Gina. That has me almost buckling in shame, especially since I just could never give Gina what she wanted.
I can’t give it to Kate either, but selfish fuck that I am, I am going to take what she offers me.
“You okay?” I hear from my doorway, and Kate stands there looking at me hesitantly. She’s changed into her little pajama set that I love because it shows all of that beautiful, creamy skin. She’s no longer self-conscious about her body in front of me, as well she shouldn’t be. I’ve had my mouth on every square inch of it.
“No,” I tell her honestly. I know I can’t be honest in all my feelings, but I don’t have a problem admitting that. She needs to know it so she can understand that tonight won’t be hearts and flowers. I need to obliterate the oppressive feelings, and about the only way to do that is fuck my brains out with her until I reach a mind-numbing oblivion.
“What can I do?” she asks as she walks in and shuts the door behind her. She turns the lock as a precaution.
