Penalty Kill

Jake

"BRYERS! Get your head out of your fucking ass and move it! Let's go!"

My chest heaves up and down as I watch our center bend down to take the face off, and I sneak a peek up at the clock on the jumbotron overhead. One fucking minute left in this godforsaken shitshow of a game. We're down two goals, our goalie is pulled, and I already know I'm due the brunt of the blame for this loss.

I've been in the box every period. Five minutes in the first for fighting, two minutes in the second for unsportsmanlike conduct, and another five in the third for yep, you got it—more fighting. My head is anywhere but this sheet of ice, and while I'll have a black eye and a sore as fuck body tomorrow to show for it, I won't be getting what our team really needs—points.

Instead of racking up stats playing solid defense or getting shots on net for goals or making solid passes for assists, I'm apparently trying to break the record for penalty minutes during the season. It's why coach has been up my fucking ass the entire game. I can't count how many times he's screamed at me from the bench, and I pray to god this is the last time I hear it on the ice tonight as we win the face off with an extra man on.

As I skate backwards towards the blue line and keep my eyes laser-focused to anticipate a pass, I watch our forwards move the puck from one side of the rink to the other. I've got one player from the opposing team up my ass, and as I take a few crossover strides to get around him, I look back to track the puck—only to find it's headed straight for where I was, and I'm just a step too fucking far to reach it.

Just as I'm doing everything within my power to get my stick to it, the puck takes a weird bounce over the ice, and slides perfectly into the path of the player who has made my ass his new home. I turn on the edges of my blades, trying to do everything within my power to catch up to him as he takes off towards the empty net. Bending over, I stretch my stride as far as it will possibly go to get my ass into fucking gear.

One of my skates hits a rough patch in the ice, and I stumble so hard I nearly lose my balance. I recover just in time to get upright to watch the son of a bitch bury it in our goal. Every shitty thought, feeling and ounce of frustration I've felt during the last week of my life boils over as I skate towards the net. What's left of our home crowd is near silent, outside of a handful of boos echoing throughout the arena.

Right as I'm about to skate past the net, I draw in a huge breath through parted lips, wind up my stick, and slam it against the side of the goal as hard as I can while screaming "Fuck!" at the top of my lungs. The stick splinters in two with a satisfying crack, just as I expect to. The skate back to the bench and walk down the tunnel is a blur.

I'm managing to block everything and everyone out until I get back into the locker room. As I start ripping my jersey over and off my head and unstrapping pads, none other than Dusty decides to open his fucking mouth from across the room.

"Just can't fucking focus out there old man, can you? Got some fucking shit going on with your girl and you can't—"

He can't finish running his mouth because I've flown across the room to grab him by the front of his undershirt and have started screaming into his face.

"Listen here you spineless little shit, I swear to god I'll beat you into the fucking ground!"

Guys are instantly pulling us apart, and while I've got my fist cocked, I never intended to actually throw it. I just wanted to make this little fucker to think I was ready to break his pretty boy nose. I shoot one last violent glare his way before aggressively shrugging off the arms holding me back from Dusty.

The entire locker room is dead silent as we head back to our respective stalls. Every motion I go through is exaggerated, and I can't help but mutter to myself under my breath as I get all my gear off and try to find a way to calm down. But it's futile.

I slam the last of my pads down with another loud curse and hang my head in my hands. I'm fucking spent. Harper has been shutting me out, which I always knew was a possibility after her mom died. What I wasn't prepared for was how much it would actually fucking gut me. It was all fine to talk about it in hypotheticals in my head, before it happened. But when it came to living it in reality, it broke me.

For days I've tried calling, texting, trying to get through to her. I've had to stop myself from showing up at her place to just see how she's doing, to cook her a meal, or just sit with her in a silent room if that's what she needs. But she's shut me out completely. I can't get through to her.

Felicia has been my only lifeline. She'll send me a text whenever she's managed to talk to Harper, at least letting me know how she sounded and giving me some vague sense of how she's doing. The few updates she's been able to pass along have been more or less the same. Harper sounds tired. She didn't say much. She doesn't want to see anyone—not her best friend, not her boyfriend. 

Running my hands through my hair, I grip the back of my neck as I stare down at my feet. I feel sick. I'm exhausted. I haven't slept knowing Harper is just across the city, struggling and alone. I can't focus on my literal fucking job, playing like garbage for a whole string of games this week.

I've even made desperate calls to my mom and my little sister trying to figure out what I should do. Their answers were both more or less the same. "You've got to let her grieve how she's going to grieve, honey," and "Give her some more time, Jakey". But fuck time, and fuck not being able help her, and fuck not being able to try and make this hell she's going through the slightest bit less awful.

I feel a hand rest on my shoulder, and without looking up, I know exactly who it is.

"Take it easy, man. I'm always around if you need me." Goolie gives my shoulder a light squeeze and a firm pat before I hear him walk away and out of the locker room. Just as I'm about to resign myself to another sleepless night in my apartment, slowly going out of my fucking mind while Huey whimpers at me as I repeat my new sulking routine, I hear my phone buzz from where it's perched on the shelf in my stall.

Shooting up from where I've got my head hung, I grab it and see Felicia's name on the screen. I waste no time answering before I sit back down, my heart racing with a sudden fresh surge of anxiety.

"Eh, que se passe-t-il?" Fuck. The stress-French is coming out. It's been a hot minute since I've had that problem. 

"Are you feeling alright? What the hell was that?"

Clearing my throat, I do my best to try and pull together some semblance of composure. "Sorry, it was nothing. Don't worry about it. What's going on?"

I listen as she sighs loudly into the receiver, and my stomach is doing flip-flops as my mind tries to race through a billion possibilities of what could possibly be coming next.

"Pack your bags, Bryers. You're headed to Wisconsin tomorrow."