Page 44 of Playing Dirty
He grabs her wrist and holds her there, grinning, while she struggles to wrench her arm free. Another fan is up two rows away, screaming at them, and the woman beside him is shrieking for security. Others are shouting too, but no one is intervening.
Why the fuck is no one actually helping her?
Something in my chest tears wide open.
I don't remember crossing the ice. I'm at the bench, shoving through my own teammates, my stick and gloves hitting the ground somewhere behind me. Coach is bellowing my name, "O'Rourke! O'Rourke, what the fuck are you doing?", and I can barely hear him. I haul myself up and over the railing behind the bench, and the crowd parts like the Red Sea as I surge through, the ushers and linesmen half a beat behind.
I am taking the stairs in skates. The rubber matting is the only reason I'm not on my face. I can hear Margot before I see her, her voice cutting up through the noise.
"Cillian!" she shouts as I crest the row. "What are you..."
The guy holding her wrist sees me coming and lets go like he's been burned, hands flying up as he stumbles back into his seat. "What the hell, man..."
I seize a fistful of his jersey and haul him bodily out of the row, swinging my fist hard into his gut. He doubles over with a sickening grunt, the wind punched clean out of him.
"Keep your fucking hands to yourself," I growl, the sound of my own voice foreign and jagged in my ears. "You think you can walk into my building and put your hands on a woman? You miserable piece of shit."
The arena is a deafening wall of noise. A thousand phones are already recording. I can see the black-and-gold jerseys ofmy teammates pouring onto the ice below. Margot has both hands clamped over her mouth, eyes wide and shimmering, and I can't tell if she's terrified or relieved.
"Cillian! Drop him!" Jonesy is screaming, and then the crushing weight of two officials hits me from behind, arms locking around mine as they haul me away from the row.
The section is chaos. Security is finally swarming in to drag the other three drunks out by the collars. The fan who was yelling for help is back in his seat, the woman beside him with her hand over her mouth. I scan the wreckage until my gaze lands on Margot, and the sight of her pale, shocked face hits me like a puck to the throat.
What have I done?
Players can’t go into the stands. Players can’t punch fans, no matter what.
The answer settles in my gut like a stone.
I've just blown the season. The Cup. The team. All of it, gone.
I'm fucking finished.
I step out of the showers, probably the last person left in the building. The staff have packed up, and the lot outside is down to a handful of cars.
Everything I've built in the last decade got fucking ruined tonight.NHL forward sprints off the ice mid-game to assault a fan in the stands.I spent two hours in a windowless conference room giving my account to arena security while the league office sat on speakerphone and Derek drafted a statement.
Then I got walked out past a hallway of cameras shouting questions.Did you know him? What set you off? Are you aware of league policy?It is, predictably, the scandal of the season, possibly even the decade.
They tossed me from the game on the spot, obviously. The suspension is coming, that's a given, but nobody knows how far the league will go. Nothing like this has happened in decades, and never in the playoffs, never on national TV.
So I’ve received an indefinite suspension while they investigate, and after that it's whatever the commissioner decides it needs to be to make an example of someone. My contract, the sponsors, all of it hanging on that decision.
The team is understandably livid. This is their season too, and I've just detonated a grenade in the middle of it. Jonesy made a heroic effort to look supportive, but even he couldn't quite hide the disappointment in his eyes.
My family group chat has been blowing up since the final horn. I sent one quick reply to let them know I was in one piece and then buried the phone at the bottom of my gear bag, unable to stomach the noise.
At the same time, if I were back on that ice this very second, watching that asshole put his hands on her, I'd do it all again.
Maybe it's because when Fiadh was assaulted back home, I was half a world away and couldn't do a fucking thing to help her. Maybe it's because I spent my childhood listening to the stories Mam brought home from her advocacy work.
I'd have done the same for anyone in that section. I'd like to believe that's true. But the fact that it was Margot...
I haven't even seen her since the officials hauled me away. I have no clue if she's even alright, if my "rescue" only managed to make her night ten times more traumatic, or if she currently despises me for the spectacle.
I towel dry my damp hair and tug on a pair of joggers, realizing only then that I left my t-shirt and hoodie back by the training tables. I'm standing there half-naked in the quiet when a voice cuts through the shadows.
"Cillian?"
