Chapter 4
I wake up late on Tuesday morning. It's Christmas Eve, so there will be no practice today or tomorrow. It’s a welcome break, I'm sore from the game last night, and I'm finally healing up from my punishment after Thursday night. The cut above my eye is still scabbed, but it looks much better, and the bruising around it is nearly gone.
I call my parents, who are planning a family dinner for later tonight, an event I won't be home for. I'll probably spend the night with Johan, who has been calmer because we've won the last two games. As I talk to them, my call waiting beeps through, and its Craig Patrick on the other line. After hanging up with my mother, I come back to C.P., "Hey Craig, what's up?"
"Merry Christmas, Andy. Have any plans?"
"Probably just dinner with Johan, neither of us are getting home for the holiday," I explain.
"Sounds good. Well, anyway, you're probably wondering why I called on Christmas Eve..." he trailed off, and then cleared his throat. "You have been playing really well lately, Andy. You're young and fast and you have potential. Because of that, I was just on the phone with Ken Holland, Detroit's GM."
My mouth goes dry.
"As of noon today, you are a Red Wing. You and Kraft are going to Detroit, plus they'll get our fourth round pick in the draft, and we're getting Woolley and Jason Williams. You'll do well there, Andy. They've had some injuries on their defense, and your speed was something that was very attractive to them."
I don't know what to say. I've never been traded before. "Okay."
"It has been good to have you in the organization, Andy. Good luck in Detroit," he finishes, and then hangs up.
That's it.
Merry Christmas, now go away.
I haven't put the phone down yet, and an angry tone rings in my ear until I put it back on the cradle. As the tears start to make my vision waver, three quick raps on my door call for my attention. Absently, I open the door, but when I see the enraged blue eyes glaring at me, I'm pulled back to the present.
"You asked for this, didn't you?" Johan asks, pushing past me.
He knows.
"You can't fucking take it, can you?" he snarls, slamming the door shut. He shoves me into it roughly, and I wince as the knob pokes into my lower back. "You can't handle that I'm telling you what you're doing wrong. Such a fucking pussy," he says in disgust. He pulls on my arm, then pushes me into the wall. His fingers curl around the crown of my head, and he bangs my forehead against the wooden paneling, and I feel the gash over my eye reopen.
"I can't believe you, Andrew. You run to the fucking GM so that you don't have to hear the truth anymore," he punches me, a quick, hard shot to my stomach. While I'm doubled over, his knee connects with my nose; it isn't hard enough to break anything, but I can feel blood starting to drip down my lip. "Don't you realize what is going to happen now? This is it. You're over," I look up at him, and he sees the tears in my eyes. "So fucking scared," he mutters, and then he catches me with a hard right handed punch, just above my cheekbone, and I feel the world wavering.
I slip to the ground, unable to stop the tears, and he snorts. "At least now I don't have to put up with you," he finishes, and a moment later, I hear the door slam, and he is gone.
He's right. This is the end. I'm going to Detroit, and I'm going to be exposed.
I'm not strong enough without him.
