AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Talk to me, Morrow. What’s going on.”
I condense the story into the pertinent details, concluding with today’s meeting with management and the less than positive outcome that came from it.
“That sucks,” Chris claps me on the shoulder. “Do you want advice, or do you want to work out some frustration on the ice later.”
“Maybe a little of both?”
“Okay. First, some advice, spend as much time as you can with her leading up to the roadie, make sure she has a care team and plan in place before you leave. As for the other thing, when our shifts are out together at some point tonight, and you know we will be, I’m your guy.”
“You’re serious?”
“When you’re ready to drop the gloves and work off the frustration that has you in this mood, yes, I’m serious. I’m your guy.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” I laugh, clapping Chris on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem. Just don’t, you know, knock out any more of my teeth than you already have.”
“No promises.”
The only promise is that late in the second period, I do find Chris after I’m hit hard into the boards by one of his goons. I square up against him and drop my gloves just like he said. Chris does the same and once I have him by the collar the fight is on.And it’s exhausting. We trade punches, Chris dodging my fist skillfully – the first few times – and only landing a couple to the side of my face, avoiding my nose and my mouth as best he can. The refs stand to the side, waiting for one of us to drop to the ice. Chris won’t be the first to go down. I know him, and I know he’ll wait for me to end it.
And I do. When I’m good and tired and the adrenaline has worn off and the anger that was bubbling up all day is left on the ice with…yeah. That’s one of my teeth. Finally, I drop to the ice, a sign to Chris and the refs, that the fight is over. They finally pull us apart and we each get dragged to a penalty bench and if looks could kill, I’d drop dead here and now.
Francine is angry.
With me, no doubt.
And in her eyes, I deserve it.
CHAPTER 12
CENTER ICE
FRANCINE
Stefan takesa hard hit into the boards, his second of the night, face flaring with anger as he spins away. After orienting himself, he tracks down his assailant and offers him a high stick to the back. This isn’t like Stefan, and I’m worried he’s going to get himself something worse than a two minute penalty. When his opponent turns around, Stefan drops his gloves with a shake of his hands, squaring up and taking a swing.
Hyryck and Larsson get in on the action, trying to pull Stefan away, but he shakes them off as well. The officials wait out the fight rather than getting involved. Fists are flying, and both skaters are staying upright. I don’t know how much longer either one can last before they’re both exhausted. Finally, after what seems like an eternity on the ice, Stefan drops and the fight is over. The refs pull him and his opponent away from each other, all but dragging Stefan over to my box.
“Number fourteen, that’s a ten minute misconduct.”
Because of my injury, the league insisted that an on-ice official let the players into the box, and all I have to do is make sure they get out. It limits my movement and keeps me from putting too much weight on my knee. Stefan is about to serve hislongest penalty of the season and he enters the box, he tosses his helmet to the floor, and tries to catch his breath.
“What has gotten into you?” I hiss, trying to keep things as professional as I can, almost certain we’re on camera.
“I told you earlier, management turned down my request.”
“This is about me? Stefan, we will figure things out, but this isnotthe way to handle it. I am not worth ruining your career for.”
“Francine -”
“Stop. We’ll talk about it off the ice.”
The rest of his ten minutes is tense, but at least the Union don’t have to play shorthanded in his absence. Finally, his ten minutes are up, and I send him back to the ice where he immediately skates off to the bench. Thankfully Stefan doesn’t see the penalty box again during the game, but that doesn’t mean he’s off the hook.
We’ve been driving to and from work together, and usually I meet him near the player entrance, but tonight I wait for him in the penalty box, texting him to let him know where I’ll be. Across the ice, Stefan steps into the union bench and, even in his charcoal slacks, black dress shirt, and dress shoes, he effortlessly jumps the boards onto the ice and crosses toward me. Opening my own door, I carefully step onto the ice myself.
“What are we doing here, Francine?” Stefan meets me at center ice.
