I lunge for him, fist swinging, and I can’t wait for the second it connects. Coach would tell me not to fight, that we can afford the penalty on me, and it’s not my job to act as an enforcer anyway. I don’t care.
But my knuckles don’t connect with Labowski’s face. Instead, he drops to the ice. What a fucking coward. The fury bottled up inside of me explodes. I drop down onto one knee, grab him by the jersey, lift him up, and drive my fist right into his face.
I sitin my agent’s office, feeling way too big for the tiny little chair underneath me. Her office is, as per usual, impossibly clear. Her chair sits at a perfect right angle, and the little nameplate on the desk readsAbigail Clark.
The TV in the corner of the room plays and replays the five seconds last night, and the stress ball in my lap remains untouched despite Abbie gesturing toward it multiple times.
She sits on the edge of her desk, watching the scene on the TV and pinching the bridge of her nose. Her choppy blond hair is practically standing on edge; her normally pristine pantsuit actually wrinkled today. I worry that I might be single-handedly aging her.
When I let out a disbelieving noise, Abbie glances back pointedly at the stress ball, which is shaped like a hockey puck.
But I’m not paying attention to the stress ball. I’m paying attention to the image on the screen—me grabbing Labowski’s jersey, the stupid, wild look of fear on his face, my fist drivingright at him. The explosion of blood. Perfect for an action movie, and perfect for making me look like the world’s largest jackass.
How was I supposed to know he lost his balance? That he slipped and fell by accident? I thought he had baited me into the fight just to get me five minutes in the penalty box, and I wanted to make him hurt for being such a fucking coward.
“For the last time,” I say, scrubbing my hands over my face and turning to look at my manager, throwing a hand toward the TV with exasperation. “I thought he was turtling!”
“It doesn’tmatter, Bradson,” she snaps back, shaking her head and hitting a button on the remote to turn the station off. “You shouldn’t have hit a guy on the ground. You know better than that. Especially with your reputation.”
“You didn’t hear the shit Labowski was saying throughout the game.”
“Yeah, and I bet the refs didn’t either. It also doesn’t matter—player safety is up the team’s ass right now, which means they’re up my ass, too.”
I let out a long sigh and drop my head between my knees for a second, forcing myself to breathe. My first season in the NHL, and I’ve already managed to make it to the Stanley Cup and get myself ejected from the final game in the series.
“Also, the Kings PR people have been on the phone with me. They are not happy about what this is doing for the team’s image. Did you know there are already a lot of memes and a lot of people on social media calling you a bully?”
“Bully.” I snort. “Meanwhile, Labowski is off looking like a fucking victim.”
“You punched him while he was down, Jacob.”
“That’s not my name,” I say lamely, knowing that Abbie will keep calling me it regardless. At this point, it’s not like I’m going to be able to find another manager to represent me. Not with my ‘reputation’.
“Start acting right, and I’ll start caring about what you like to be called.”
“Can’t believe they ejected me,” I mutter.
“I can,” she says, but her voice is slightly muffled because my head is back between my knees. “You already had three majors in this series, Jake. I’ve been on the phone with admin this whole morning. They’re royally pissed off.”
I don’t bother raising my head and instead ask, as the blood rushes between my ears, “How pissed?”
“Pissed enough that if you don’t clean up your act, there’s not going to be a spot for you to come back to.”
Abbie and I go back and forth for another hour, with her telling me that if I care about hockey at all, I need to find a way to be more of a lover and less of a fighter.
“The NHL is moving away from fighting, Jake. You need to find some other way to take out your aggression. May I suggest therapy?”
“You can suggest it all you want.”
An hour later, I’m slamming through the front door, desperately trying to keep my cool. It feels like, with every year that passes, the anger grows hotter and larger inside me, building pressure until even the smallest things send me over the edge.
Outside, the sky is shining blue, like it always is here. California is practically seasonless – I think it explains why the people are so bland here. There’s nothing like a polar vortex to toughen you up a little, give you a personality.
I push through crowds of tourists, thankfully not walking past any hockey fans on my way to a taco stand down the street. The last thing I need is some guy recognizing me and shoving a microphone in my face, trying to get a hot take for his short-form content.
It’s nearly my turn at the front of the line when my phone starts to buzz in my pocket. Thinking it might be Abbie — and delusionally wondering if it could be the administration, calling to apologize, having realized I was totally in the right — I pull it out.
But it’s not Abbie, and I stare at the caller ID as the phone continues to vibrate in my hand.
