Page 95 of Game Misconduct

thirty-six

. . .

Nick

When I left New Orleans, not a single player reached out. Nobody said goodbye. And sure, I didn’t reach out either, too busy in the bottom of a bottle of bourbon.

Guess I really am like my father.

I spent three and a half seasons there, and if it weren’t for contract conversations going sour toward the end, I’d consider my time there a success. But that’s business; that’s between my agent and management, not me and my teammates.

Before the trade, I thought we were all friends. Sure, there was drama in the dressing room, but that’s par for the course when you have twenty-plus men from varying countries and backgrounds. I helped bring the team to the Eastern Conference Championship twice, and yeah, we failed in the Finals, but we still put up a good showing.

My experience with that team is nothing like with the Grizzlies. They wanted me enough to trade for me, but they never made me feel as welcomed and wanted as I feel now in Boston. My old teammates never invited me to hang out.

All season long, I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure it out. Why coming back to Boston, coming back to my hometown, should have been the worst thing to happen to me, and instead might actually be the best thing I’ve ever done.

I’ve been dreading this game against my former team, and from the second the puck drops, New Orleans has it out for me.

It’s a Saturday night, we’re on a national broadcast, and the pressure has amped up to an eleven out of ten.

Every time I’m on the ice, New Orleans is on me. I give as good as I get, landing hit after hit, but by the middle of the first period, I’m run ragged.

There’s a difference between playing a heavy-hitting game and targeting someone. And Hastings is definitely targeting me. I just can’t put together why. What did I ever do to him? We were never buddy-buddy, of course, but I thought we were at least on decent terms.

When I hit the bench, McKittrick claps me on the shoulder. “What the fuck is going on out there?”

Hastings is the one who ended his career last season. Rupturing his Achilles might’ve looked like a freak accident, but we know better. There’s bad blood between them.

But I didn’t think that grudge extended to me. It’s not like I slept with his sister or something.

“Hell if I know,” I mutter, reaching for a bottle and guzzling the electrolyte drink. “This is fucking brutal.”

I can’t get a clean pass or shot. I’ve been hit so many times, I’ll be bruised black and blue for a month.

“You’ve got this,” Coach Turner says. “Show those assholes exactly why they should have kept you, and what they’re missing out on.”

It’s not a request; it’s an order.

“Yes, Coach.”

When it’s our turn, we take the ice with a chip on our shoulder. I hit Hastings just as hard as he’s been attacking me. I hold nothing back, and neither does he.

Jenkins has the puck at the right point, and Gonzo’s in the bumper. I float closer to the center, prepared to get my mitts dirty. I’m a goal scorer; that’s my job, and I fucking excel at it.

The puck lands on my blade, and I try to get a shot off, but it ricochets off the goaltender’s pads. He’s been on fire all night. If it weren’t for a lucky snipe by Larsson, plus Henry standing on his head, we’d be down too far to come back from.

Gonzo gathers the puck and we reset. Sinclair and Logan straddle the blue line, ready to play fetch if needed.

Jenkins receives the pass, and his shot hits the crossbar. The ping that echoes through the arena is nearly drowned out by his expletive-laden curse.

I nab the puck on the rebound, dishing it to Logan, who saucers it right back to me. I send it flying across the zone to Gonzo, and I’m immediately hit from behind, even though the puck is nowhere near me. Wind knocked out of me, I collapse onto the ice, and Hastings jabs me in the ribs with his stick as he skates by.

Of fucking course, the refs didn’t see it, and play keeps going. The bitter tang of blood fills my mouth, and a red spot mars the ice where my face crashed into the jagged surface.

Our fans are livid, booing and throwing things onto the ice. At least the Boston crowd has my back; at least my team likes me.

Removing my glove, I bring my hand to my lip. It comes away bloody, and with a sigh, I skate over to the bench.