Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
The Demons fans go berserk with glee, as well they should.
We just lost our best player as well as the man advantage. More important, we also lost our momentum.
By the time they clear a dazed Nilsson off the ice, Legend gets set back up in the goal, the face-off occurs, and we manage to get control of the puck in the Demons’ zone, but the clock is our enemy and we run out of time to pull our goalie again.
The loss doesn’t sit well with anyone because whatever set Tacker off and caused him to attack Nilsson cost us any legitimate chance we had to try to tie the game and force overtime.
We all trudge back to the locker room with sagging shoulders. While we’re disappointed and heart-heavy over the loss, none of us are actually pissed at Tacker.
Well, Coach will be pissed, but as players, we all know that could have happened to any one of us out there. We play with passion and fire at all times. It’s a violent sport and we all take a beating during every game. I’ve been in that same situation…feeling like a bomb with a short fuse. Granted, it doesn’t happen to the veteran players often and Tacker usually has much more maturity and self-control out there, but the dude lost it and I’m not going to cry over it.
The mood is somber and quiet when we make it back to the locker room. Legend can be a hothead and he makes a big production of slamming his stick into his locker. The rest of us quietly get undressed and one by one head into the shower. As I’m walking in, Tacker’s walking out with his head hanging low with an utter refusal to look any of us in the face.
I give him a slight bump of my fist against his biceps as I pass him, muttering, “Don’t worry about it, dude.”
He doesn’t reply.
By the time I get out of my shower and back to my locker, Tacker is nowhere to be seen.
And then I hear it.
Coach Perron bellowing at the top of his lungs from the guest coach’s office that sits off the locker room. The door is closed and the walls are made of cinderblock, but there is no muffling an enraged coach’s voice.
“You goddamn stupid son of a bitch should know better than that,” Coach Perron yells.
We don’t hear a word from Tacker and I can imagine his stubborn refusal to engage. Best to let Coach get it out, and he continues on. “And if you think I’m pissed about losing this game, think again. I’m pissed because you are most definitely going to get sanctioned for this. You’re going to get suspended for fuck knows how many games and the team as a whole is going to lose our winning momentum. All because you couldn’t rein your temper in and had to make a jackass decision to start a fight out there when we had a powerful six on five advantage.”
There’s a moment of silence and then Coach yells, “Do you not have anything to say for yourself?”
Nothing.
Then Coach bellows, “Get the fuck out of my sight, Hall.”
When the door opens, all of us turn around and act like we weren’t just eavesdropping on the conversation. From the corner of my eye, I see Tacker grab his duffel and storm out of the locker room, presumably to the team bus that will take us straight to our hotel
“What in the fuck happened out there?” Bishop mutters, not loud enough for everyone to hear, but enough of us do.
“No clue,” I tell him.
“Happened too fast,” Dax says.
“I saw it,” Carter says in a low voice and takes a few steps toward us. He dips his head and lowers his voice even further. “Or rather, I heard it. Nilsson kept shoving Tacker with his stick, trying to rile him up but it wasn’t working. So he resorted to words.”
“What did he say?” Bishop asks through gritted teeth.
Carter gives a disgusted shake of his head. “He fucking brought up the plane crash.”
“What?” I growl, shooting up off the bench with my hand at my waist to hold my towel in place.
Carter nods. “Told him he played hockey as well as he flew planes.”
“Son of a fucking bitch,” Bishop yells and rams his fist into the frame around his cubby. “I’m going to kill that fucker, Nilsson. Going to find his house tonight and go kill him. You have to know where he lives, right Erik?”
“Yup,” I say because I’m all on board with this idea. That was about as fucking low as I’ve ever seen another player go, and I’ve seen some really fucked-up things out on the ice.
To bring up the plane crash to Tacker was beyond the pale. I can’t even imagine what the fuck was going through Tacker’s mind, but I saw that look of rage in his eyes and now I know why he attacked. Those two knees to the head were deliberate and they were probably made with the intent to do serious bodily harm to Nilsson. Tacker’s going to get in some serious trouble, no doubt.