Page 101 of Playing Dirty
The whistle's barely gone for the offside when I put both hands into his chest and send him into the ice. He goes down theatrically, arms out, playing to every camera in the building, and the referee's arm is up before I've finished regretting it.
The crowd howls. I skate to the penalty box with my pulse slamming and my own voice in my head, flat and disgusted: afull year of learning to play cold, and he found the one match you had left.
They score eleven seconds before my penalty ends. I watch it happen from the box, close enough to hear their bench celebrate, and there's no worse seat in the world than the one you bought yourself.
I'm quiet at the intermission. Whelan doesn't yell at me, which is worse than if he had. He just looks at me on his way past, one long look, and says, "Done?"
"Done," I say, and I mean it.
On the bench before the third starts, I catch myself doing Margot's ridiculous blowfish breathing, cheeks puffed out like an absolute eejit, and some camera has surely got it, and I don't care. It works. That's the part I'd never tell her fast enough: it works.
The third period is the best hockey I play all season. Clean, hard, furious in the only direction that helps. We tilt the whole ice toward their net and their goalie starts robbing us like it's personal, glove save after glove save, and the building gets louder with every one because everyone in here can feel it coming, the tying goal, it's coming, it has to be coming.
It comes to me. Final minute, our goalie pulled for the extra man, and the puck lands flat on my blade with half a net showing and the whole season narrowing down to one swing of my arms.
Their goalie gets a glove on it. I still don't know how.
The horn goes. Their bench pours over the boards at the far end, and I stand there in the noise-turned-quiet with my hands on my knees, one goal short, staring at a patch of glass three rows up where nobody's been sitting all night.
The room after is careful. Long series, one game, we were right there. All of it true and none of it landing.
"The penalty's mine," I say to the room, loud enough to be heard. "It won't happen again."
Nobody argues, which is fair enough.
Press is short and ugly. Someone asks if tonight proves the old temper is still in there, and I give the boring answer through my teeth while thinking that the honest one is none of your business. And then I'm finally at my stall, tie half done, and I dig my phone out of my bag.
A missed call from Margot, logged early in the second. Then one text, an hour old.
I'm so sorry. I’m waiting for you by the tunnel exit.
I snag my gear and bolt.
She's still dressed for the fundraiser, in her cocktail dress and heels, looking out of place against the cold concrete of the tunnel where the players' lot meets the building, a sweater yanked over her shoulders for warmth.
The fluorescents overhead hum and flicker with a rhythmic, annoying buzz, and behind me the arena is finally starting to empty out, the muffled roar of engines and voices fading into the night air.
She looks up the second she sees me, and the relief that hits me nearly takes my legs out from under me. Then I get close enough to see her face properly in the harsh light. She's clearly been crying, and my mind immediately starts sprinting through a dozen different tragedies.
"Cillian," she says, her voice trembling. "I'msosorry. I know how much tonight meant, and I wanted to be in that seat so badly."
I close the last few feet between us, searching her face for answers. "What happened? Are you alright?"
"I..." She bites her lower lip and looks toward the shadows. "I just... I had a panic attack and bolted from the party. I wasdriving here, but then my nerve just vanished and I went the other way. I'm so sorry. There's no excuse for it."
I drag a hand down my face, a massive weight lifting from my gut. A panic attack I can handle; at least nobody’s in a hospital bed.
"Are you mad?" she asks, looking up at me with wide, shimmering eyes.
"What?" I let out a short breath. "No, fuck, Margot, I'm not mad at all."
I pull her in tight and she melts against me, tucking her head under my chin, and my heart aches for her, knowing she's been out here spiraling and thinking I'd be pissed at her over something like this. I pull back slightly to look at her, wiping a few stray tears from her cheek.
“I thought you'd be upset, and you'd have every right.” She sniffles. "I missed something so huge for you. And I really,reallydid want to be here."
"It doesn't matter. I'm just glad you're okay. I started thinking something horrible might have happened to you." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "What caused the panic attack?"
“At the fundraiser, I ran into Jason. My ex.” She takes a step back as she says it.
