Drug test. Timothée skated across the ice, the same sour scowl that had been gracing his face for the last day and half still plastered there as he stared down his opponent. I don’t do PEDs. Is that what’s in your mind? Let me show you. He cross-checked a defender… left winger… hell, someone wearing enemy colors. Who are we playing again? It didn’t matter. He hit them and hit them hard. Satisfying. He didn’t care about the whistle or being sent to the sin bin again—although he wasn’t sure why. He yelled at the referee. He’d hear about that later. It was a clean hit. Okay, no, it wasn’t. But so what? The guy had been in his way. He should have moved.
“Wuss!” he shouted over his shoulder, entering the penalty box to serve his time. He plonked down on the bench beside Benoit. Boo, hiss, hiss! Damn whiny-ass crowd. He snatched a towel from the shelf and dried his face.
Whoosh!
Son of a—
Timothée pounced to his feet as the wetness soaked though the back of his sweater and base layer to his spine. Spinning, he caught a glimpse of the fan who’d dumped the jumbo slushy on him bounding over the plexiglass barrier separating him from the crowd. He would have thought it was an accident and that the plexiglass had given away, but the fist flying at his face was no mistake. What kind of deranged hockey bullshit is this? Timothée blocked the hit but not the spit. Bull’s-eye! Square between the lookers. Timothée swung, connecting solidly with flesh, but not before the fan—or rather anti-fan—grabbed the front of his sweater and dragged them both to the floor.
“Get off me, Luca,” Timothée hollered, swinging multiple times, despite being on top. He drew back to punch again but was yanked backward. “You want a piece of me, too?”
Oh.
Two referees were pulling him out of the box and onto the ice. First you put me in. Now you take me out. You put your left foot in, you take your left foot out, then you shake it all about. Make up your damn mind.
Rushing inside, arena security tackled the box invader. Did I call him Luc…? Nah. Couldn’t have. After a brief scuffle, security handcuffed the man and lead him away.
“Inside, Croneau,” the linesman ordered once the spectator had been removed.
Timothée sneered. “It’s like ‘Ring around the fucking Rosie’ at this bitch.” He looked up at the crowd, who were on their feet. Oh, now you want to cheer that someone tried to kick my ass.
“Nice punch,” Benoit congratulated him.
“Shut the fuck up.”
Ryker
In the stands, Ryker covered his gaping mouth with his hand as he witnessed the carnage happening in the penalty box. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
And right on cue, here’s the peanut gallery to remind me that I’m fucking up like I’m the reason that snob knob pole-vaulted over the plexi. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.
Dropping his head, he swiped the phone screen. “I know,” he answered as a greeting. “I’ll handle it.”
Guess I’ll won’t be getting any sleep tonight.
Timothée
Timothée exited the locker room with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Dressed in a sleek peak lapel double-face knee-length cashmere coat and Venezia leather shoes, all he needed was a cloud of smoke to look like he was in a music video. Spotting Ryker leaned against the corridor wall with his arms folded, a smile instantly flickered on his face before transforming into a frown.
“You’re here to fuss at me, aren’t you?” he accused.
“No, I’m here to remind you that you’re not to beat up fans.”
“He wasn’t my fan.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Hey, he hopped his happy ass into the box. That’s my space.” He squared his shoulders. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Tim—”
“Anyone in the box gets what they get. And he swung first, plus spit in my face.” He began walking toward the exit.
“Which is the only reason why you’re not being fined.”
“And you know this how?”
Ryker cracked his knuckles. “I made some phone calls, and you’re going to issue an apology tomorrow.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are. It posts on your social media at 10:00 a.m. Too bad, so sad, you don’t have the password.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because someone has to take the high road.”
“And that’s me?”
Ryker nodded. “That’s you.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You’ll express remorse that the situation occurred and hope that the fa… spectator recovers quickly from his broken jaw.”
“I broke his—”
“Jaw,” Ryker completed. “Yes, you did.”
Oops. He hadn’t meant to do that. “But I only hit him once, and it wasn’t even that hard.”
“Dude, you were wailing on him. The refs could barely get you off.”
Did I? “I reckon. Release your statement.”
“Your statement.”
Timothée pulled open the heavy metal door and stepped out into the chilly night air. The temperature had dropped, and he turned his shoulder against the wind. His driver was waiting outside the car and opened the door. Before he slid in, Ryker caught his arm.
“Timothée, I’m concerned. Playing tonight was a mistake. I think you should take some time off.”
“Don’t you tell me I’m a mistake.”
“What? No. I didn’t say that.”
“Just like everyone else,” Timothée muttered, getting in the car and slamming the door.
“Timothée!” Ryker yelled at the window.
“Let’s go,” he ordered his driver, who climbed behind the wheel.
No one’s taking hockey away from me.