Chapter 29
I stay close to Curtis, and our net, during the pre-game skate, avoiding my former teammates if at all possible. Jason Woolley smiles weakly at me, wincing from the split in his lower lip. I get a few greetings, mainly from the guys I played with in Wilkes-Barre, but everyone else ignores that I'm even on the ice.
Except Johan. I can feel his eyes on me, making my hands shake worse than they already were. I skate off early, reaching the bathroom just in time to lose everything I ate for dinner. Steve is waiting in the hall when I come out.
"Are you sure you can do this? Would you rather take the night off?" he offers, concern evident in his eyes.
I take a deep, shaky breath, nodding slowly. "I have to do this," I say softly, my voice on the verge of breaking. "I have to prove that I'm okay…"
Curtis comes up behind Steve, holding the toothbrush from my bag. He doesn't say anything, but he holds my hand for a moment when he hands the toothbrush to me, and his eyes flicker with warmth.
I can do this. I have to.
Chelios and Fischer are the starting pair, against Lemieux's line, and as soon as the puck is dropped, Mario gets back on the bench. He stays there until Lidstrom and I climb over the boards, and then he's on the ice again.
Shit.
The whole first period, they match him up against Nick and me. Fortunately, we're playing behind Kirk, Mac and Kris, and for the first twenty minutes, they're able to stop him, keep him away from me. But there is fire in his eyes, and I know that the night is far from over.
Late in the second period, things start getting ugly. I'm fighting hard against the boards with Morozov, and out of nowhere, I'm checked hard from behind, my head smashing against the glass, so roughly that my vision blurs with stars. In the distance I hear the whistle blow, and I slip to the ice. I shake my head to clear it, wincing at the sharp pain in my forehead. I drop a glove and run my fingertips along the line where it hurts the most, and my hand comes away with blood streaked on my skin. My helmet had broken the skin, but likely not bad enough to need stitches.
As they're checking on me, I see Lemieux being pulled to the box. He gets two minutes for roughing, and from the muscle twitching in Steve's jaw, I can see that he doesn't agree with the call. "That was fucking boarding," he mutters as I pass. "He should've gotten five. Are you okay?"
"It hurts, but I'll deal with it," I give him a weak smile, hoping to reassure him, and then turn so that the trainer can put on a bandage.
The period is over before the penalty, and when we leave the ice, Mario shoots a glare my way. Curtis spends the intermission brushing his fingertips over my wound, murmuring curses and threats that Lemieux will pay. Steve gets the team more worked up, saying that we deserve revenge for the bad call. Kirk is oddly silent, his eyes narrowed, his mouth set in an angry, tight line.
"Kirk?" I ask softly, nudging his knee with mine.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the fiery rage in them slips away. "Are you sure you're alright?"
I nod, shrugging, "It's just a cut. I've had much worse…" I trail off, not wanting to expound, but Kirk understands. His eyes darken; he knows I'm talking about Johan, and what he did to me.
He turns away, anger once again clear in his expression, and when he speaks, it's so soft that I can barely hear him. "Don't worry. They'll both pay for what they've done."
In the third period, Kirk makes good on his promise.
