Page 7 of He Has Trouble (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“You’d get in big trouble with the league if this went public and I don’t care because that's my fiancée you were playing fucking games with.”
I flashed a look at Angela. She looked furious. I knew the look well.
“I’m not your fiancée, you delusional ass,” she said, voice loud. “And if you don’t get out of here right now, I’ll be spreading some nasty rumors about you to give everyone in town some reasons why I’m not.”
“What are you talking about?” Tim sounded less sure of himself now. “Give me my phone back.”
“No.” She dropped it on the ground and then slammed her heel into it, grinding it until it was clear the phone would never work again.
“You crazy bitch!” Tim took a step toward Angela, but there was no way I was going to let him move an inch closer. I stepped in front of Angela and put raised my fisted hands. Eddie stepped in front of me and Angela with his arms folded.
“You touch my sister and you’re dead meat,” Eddie said. “Whatever’s left of you when I get done with you, he’ll mop up and throw in the trash.” There’d been a reason Eddie Rizzo had been my best friend growing up. I loved him like a brother, though I hadn’t behaved like it lately.
A taxi pulled up at the end of the driveway and Mr. Rizzo opened the door, handing the driver some bills and giving instructions. Mrs. Rizzo shoved her way into the fray and gave Tim a cold cloth. “Tim, you go home now and don’t come back again unless you’re ready to apologize.”
Eddie ushered Tim into the cab and, when the door was closed, I looked around for Angela. She was nowhere to be seen. Before any of the Rizzo’s or other guests had a chance to besiege me, I figured I ought to disappear too and I trotted to the gap in the hedge along the driveway and slid through. I’d brought a bottle of Jack Daniels with me and in spite of the burning need not to end up like my father, I would open the bottle. Hell, I might need to drink half of it before I could sleep. In my old bed in the small bedroom down the hall from my snoring old man. Like I’d done for years, dreaming of the day I’d escape the misery of the place.
Sitting in the dusty living room on the old sagging couch while my old man snored away upstairs, I hardly watched the hockey game on the television. After my third shot of JD, when I couldn’t get the feel of Angela in my arms, the taste of her lips from my head, I knew I’d need to figure out a way to get her back. It would take more than shooting a few pucks and stealing a kiss in her garage. We weren’t sixteen anymore.
