Chapter 2
Minus-3.
In other words, I was on the ice for three goals against at even strength, and a fourth during a power play. This is the worst game I've had since coming back from the hernia surgery.
I don't want to leave the showers.
The hot water feels good, warming and relaxing my tense, tight muscles, but its more than that. When I leave here, I have to go back to the hotel. And I'll have to face Johan, alone in our room.
It won't be quite as bad as usual, because he didn't play tonight; J.S. was in the net for us. But he still saw the entire game. He saw me giving up the puck. He saw how I was unable to stop Carney and MacDonald. He saw every single mistake I made, and there were a lot of them.
After Wayne starts making fun of me for taking so long in the showers, I leave reluctantly, dressing slowly. Maybe he'll be asleep before I get back to the hotel. I know I deserve the punishment, but I'm not looking forward to it.
I just want to curl up in bed. Alone.
As I tighten my tie, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
"I would like to get to the hotel sometime tonight. Hurry up."
He waited for me.
Shit. No escaping it now.
"Sorry, I was distracted."
"Yeah, you've been distracted all night. Come on. Its already late."
I follow him out of the locker room with my head hung low, and the cab ride to the hotel is full of an oppressive silence that nearly chokes me. By the time we get to our room, I'm nearly in tears, but fighting them as hard as I can, because I know that he'll be even more upset if he sees me crying.
He closes the door behind me, shaking his head, "What the hell were you doing out there tonight?"
"Johan..."
"Shut up. I wasn't actually asking for an answer. It was hypothetical. That was disgraceful, Andy," he says, voice cold and cruel, but not loud. It's terrifying when he talks like this. He screams when he's mad. He is quiet and almost calm on the outside right now, but that just means he's furious with me, beyond rage.
I back towards my bed, but he grabs my arm. "I didn't tell you to move. Stand right here," he squeezes my arm tightly, harder and harder until I gasp. "You cost us the game tonight, Andy. We needed this win. You fucked it up."
"I'm sorry..."
"Shut the fuck up, Andrew. I'm not done," He smacked me hard on the cheek, the slap echoing through the room. "I have to give you what you deserve for giving the win to Anaheim." He swung hard, catching my jaw, and my teeth jarred shut, cutting into the inside of my cheek. I swallowed hard, my mouth dry except for the blood seeping from the wound.
He's right. This loss is my fault. I need to be reminded. I need him to refresh my memory, so that I can play better next time.
He hits me again, this time catching me with a strong blow just below my collarbone, and I fall backwards against the bed. He kicks at my leg, and I can feel the bruise forming on my shin. He snarls at me, and then disappears into the bathroom, leaving me to think about what I've done. What I deserve. I run my tongue over the cut in my mouth, wincing at the sting. Then I stand up to see what my face looks like. It’s just red now, but its going to be swollen in a few hours, swollen and purplish blue. I'm going to be bruised again tomorrow morning, on my face and my chest and my leg, but I need that. Because they will be there to help me. When I see them, I'll remember.
I'll be better next time.
