Page 82 of Anger Bang
And that’s exactly what she was going to tell everyone crowded into the pews when she marched out into that church and told them the wedding was off and that Tig Jones was a complete and utter asshole.
Chapter Two
Present Day…
Cal…
Sure, the sign outside of the Waterbury bar said The Penalty Box, but Cal Matsen knew he was actually in hell.
Even worse, he couldn’t even get a beer at a fucking sports bar because it was so damn crowded. The space between the corner booth where he was sitting and the bar was hips to elbows with three kinds of people.
One, tourists who made the trek across the bridge from Harbor City because some travel app said the bar was a must-see.
Two, diehard Ice Knights fans acting as if they were having a religious experience as they stared at the walls covered in team memorabilia and tried to work up the courage to approach the handful of past and current players shooting the shit around Cal.
Three, armchair GMs who thought they knew more than the people actually paid to do the job. These assholes weren’t afraid of telling everyone every single one of their hockey-related thoughts very loudly.
It was the kind of place that made the four-inch jagged scar on Cal’s right thigh throb and his mood go dark. He fuckinghatedhockey bars, and he never would have set foot in this place if he hadn’t been forced by a giant asshole, aka Zach Blackburn.
“For fuck’s sake, Cal, another beer is coming.” Blackburn scanned the Waterbury sports bar he’d bought after his retirement. No doubt he was looking for his wife, who he couldn’t be apart from for longer than six breaths.“You can stop making that pissy face.”
“I’m not making a face,” Cal muttered.“It justismy face.”
“Fucking unfortunate,” Blackburn said with a grin.
“You’re telling me,” Cal said, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. Trash-talking between friends—now that was familiar and welcome territory.“I’m the one who has to see it every time I shave.”
“Highly recommend you go with a beard.”
Cal had a beard once. Well, as good as he could grow during his first and only playoff run. He hadn’t liked it then, and that wasn’t going to change now.
“They itch,” he grumbled as he watched the hockey game playing on one of the ten screens within his view.
“It’s always something with you. Never satisfied. Almost makes me feel sorry for Jonesy. Nah, I take that back. The kid deserves whatever you’re about to send his way.” Blackburn scowled.“What were you thinking, saying yes to that job? Even if it’s only for the rest of the season, that’s more time than I’d want to ever spend again with Tig fuckin’ Jones. The kid’s a jackass, and the absolute pure fucking joy at the thought of never having to play with him again may have been the last push I needed to officially retire.”
Cal didn’t need to be reminded about Tig’s less-than-charming personality. Everyone knew about it. There were magazine cover stories and social media fan accounts documenting his assholery—or eccentricities, depending on who was talking.
The truth of it, though, was goalies were always giant pain in the asses—he should know; he’d been one once. They were superstitious, temperamental, and slightly unhinged. They were annoyingly calm until they weren’t, and the Gatorade bottle sitting on the back of the net felt their fury. They were more than a little intense and had earned their collective reputation as hockey’s weirdos. They were a breed apart. They had to be. They were the players on the ice who willingly got into a net where they had to do whatever it took to stop six ounces of frozen rubber coming at them at speeds up to one hundred and nine miles per hour from crossing the goal line—including taking a puck to the helmet, if that’s what was needed.
“All hockey players are jackasses,” Cal grumbled.
Blackburn let out a mock-offended gasp as he pointed at the Ice Knights jersey with his name on it displayed like a museum piece.
Cal shrugged.“Thanks for making my point.”
Blackburn rolled his eyes.“This is the last time I’m inviting you out for a beer.”
“Invite?” Cal scoffed.“You and that scary fucking wife of yours practically kidnapped me.”
“Maybe if you weren’t such a hermit since you moved to Harbor City, I wouldn’t have to,” Blackburn said as he scanned the crowd for his wife, his entire face transforming the second he spotted her cutting her way through the crowd to their table.
In that moment, Blackburn went from grizzly bear to gummy bear. If he was another kind of guy, Cal might have thought it was cute or some such touchy-feely shit. Fuck, he might have even been jealous.
But he wasn’t some other guy. He was Cal The-Should’ve-Been Matsen, and he had one last chance to kinda sorta be in the game again.
No, teaching some punk how to pull his head out of his own ass wasn’t anywhere close to getting between the pipes and shutting down a wristshot when the game was on the line, but it was as close as he was going to get. Life rarely gave second chances, and this time he wasn’t about to let hockey slip out of his grasp.
One beer and three fans asking him if he was“that Cal Matsen” later, he was on the train headed across the water and back into Harbor City. He got off the train and walked the three blocks to his building, pausing outside The Flying Sow Pub. His fridge was empty, and the sign on the door promised cheeseburgers. Per usual, his stomach made the decision. He pivoted and headed inside.
