Antidote to Infidelity (32 page)

Rowan squeezes back into the
fold as Tannoy Tom thunders,
‘Ladies and gentleman
,
for
your own safety, please keep your eye on the puck at all times,’
and a
dozen or so kids scrabble behind us, eager to claim the souvenir.

Handing me a freezing Bud, she
offers me the popcorn as Jenson McRaney, my favourite post-hockey drinking
partner, lumbers into the sin bin and slams the door, yanking off his helmet in
frustration. As he grins at us, scoffing and gossiping on the front row, Amy, a
devoted Strikers’ fan, almost chokes on her lolly as she springs out of her
seat to voice her disapproval at yet another crap call.

“Rreeffff! Are you
blind
or what?” she screams in my ear. “Open your damn eyes, get loser Lambert in the
bin an’all. Get him in!”

Slapping my gobby sister’s
knee, I stifle a laugh as the home fans follow her lead, hollering, ‘in the
bin, in the bin, in the bin’ in full united voice. Pulling out dozens of pairs
of over-sized plastic specs, they wave them at the referee before sending a
colourful Mexican wave around the arena.

With the world on his back, the
rookie referee crumbles, banishing Chad Lambert to the adjoining sin bin to a
frenzy of claps, boos, jeers and hisses. Immediately, the towering duo - half
blood-hungry, half playing to the baying crowd - square up again, separated
only by a thin layer of Plexiglas. Oh, and Gordon the goal judge, who shrinks
into his seat with a Cornish pasty.

Lambert - a snarling
man-mountain with the charisma of a dead weasel - raises his stick, removes his
glove and runs his hand the length of the shaft, giving his hissy audience the
old ‘wanker’ sign. Seconds later, busy hand still shaking, he’s covered by a
shower of popcorn, programmes and goading rubber chickens.

Forgetting my black mood, I
burst out laughing.

God, I love this game! Where
else could you get away with that?

Sensing unrest, Rowan shuffles closer.
Liselle links arms with me apprehensively. Even Amy shuts her big trap and
plonks down beside us.

“Oooh, Sal. This could get
ugly,” she whispers. “God, I
love
it, it’s like Youngblood! Are we safe
here?”

I’m about to say, ‘Yep, relax,
we’re fine’, but change my mind as Lambert scales the Plexi, smashing his stick
down on Jenson’s skull. Almost as if someone’s got a paint sprayer, the glass
in front is drenched in a deep red jet of thick, warm blood.

The crowd goes ballistic. I
drop my Bud. Rowan squeals and covers her eyes. We all look on in silent horror
as Jenson, eyes flickering, touches his gaping wound, studies his crimson hand
and slumps to the floor, out cold.

Oww, this is not good.
Definitely not good. This kind of thing hardly ever happens - trust it to
happen tonight!

Waving frantically at the
Strikers’ bench for the physio, Ruby Brant, I holler, “Ruby! Ruby! Get over
here! Bring a medic, get a medic!”

Although my voice is drowned in
the atmosphere, Reece Hamilton and Dan Brody, the Strikers’ hitmen, are already
on their way. Leaping over the barrier like thoroughbreds, they thunder towards
Lambert as head coach Bay Kingsway yanks open the players’ gate, signalling a
mass free-for-all scrap.

Nooo, I need a doctor, quick,
not a bloody bench clearance!

As the riled teams collide
centre-ice, Queen’s macho brawling ballad ‘We Will Rock You’ rings out around
the electric arena. First in line for a punch is Wings’ cocky player-coach
Darren Starr, who takes the brunt of the stampede, disappearing beneath a mass
of bodies as Brody reaches the penalty box.

Shattering the glass with his
stick, he hauls Lambert over the debris, covering the pair in a coppery shower
before dropping his gloves and letting fly. Rather than risk a scratch, the
three blind mice - the referee and his two linesmen - huddle in the far corner,
noting shirt numbers as the rest of the players pair off to fight.

The blood-tinted ice is barely
visible beneath a blanket of sticks, gloves and helmets. I’m eager to see the
Strikers bust some chops (and secretly hoping Wade’ll get a damn good hiding)
when I realise: Jenson isn’t stirring . . . and the cavalry isn’t coming. Eyes
bulging white, tongue lolling, he’s clearly in more trouble than I’d realised.

“Oh Jesus, Ruby! Ruby!” I wail.
“Amy, get some help!
QUICK
!”

Diving into the goal judge’s
den, I snatch the spare keys and let myself into the penalty box as Amy dashes
off in search of a medic. Rolling my coat into a ball, I slide it under
Jenson’s head and heave him onto his side, shoving my fingers into his open
mouth.

There. Got it. Phew!

Relieved, I tug out the slimy
blue gum shield that’s wedged itself in his throat.

“Jenson? Can you hear me?
Jenson, it’s Sal. Come on buddy . . . ”

Smmmaash! Bang! Ummmph!

The huge sheet of Plexi to the
front of the sin bin shatters, covering us in thousands of twinkling squares as
two fifteen-stone brutes career into the tiny box. The noise startles Jenson,
who jumps, sneezes blood and attempts to sit up.

Trying desperately to shield
him from the cycloning madness around us, I recognise Wade - but only by his
arm numbers - as Wings’ captain Bruce ‘The Cannibal’ Carter has him in ‘the
death lock’. Shirt over his head, arms paralysed by bulky shoulder pads, Wade
is rendered helpless as The Cannibal rains in a monsoon of punches before
dragging him icewards by the hair.

Alarmed that, despite my palm
pressed to his wound, blood is still pumping from Jenson’s head like a warm
spring, I scream again for a medic as the rubber-neck crowd bays for more. All
set to rip off my top to stem the flow, I hear crisp footsteps ice side,
followed by a hand on my shoulder.

“Hi there, miss. I’m Mike
Foster, the new team physio. Well, doctor, I answer to both. Good job by the
looks of things. I’m not very good with faces I’m afraid, who’s this unlucky
chap?”

Whaaaat?

Unable to believe my ears, I
whirl round to face him, then remember my appearance and cringe in vain dismay.

What’s he doing at the
hockey?My hockey? Oh, he couldn’t have picked a worse night.

“Jenson. Jenson McRaney,” I say
quickly. “He’s been hit with a stick blade and he’s got a whopping great hole
in his head . . .”

“I can
see
that, Sally,”
he says, absorbing my full hideousness. “Bugger me, who should I tend to first?
What are
you
doing here? And what the
hell
happened to your
face?”

Before I can answer, he flips
open his case. Leaning over Jenson, he tips his chin to shine a pencil light
into his blinking eyes.

“Hello there son, it’s Doc
Foster, squeeze my hand if you can hear me. No no, don’t try to move, a
stretcher’s on its way.” 

Smoothing Jenson’s hair, I’m
relieved when he squeezes Mike’s hand and mutters, “Hey, Sal. Did we win? Did
they get him for me?” Then, eyes wide, “Whoa! Fuck me, did they get you, too?”

Wiping away a nervous tear, I
glance out over the frozen pond where the bitter war is almost over.

“Sure did, buddy. Reece rattled
him good, cheap-shot jerk. Don’t worry, he won’t be pulling a stunt like that
for a bit. Oooh, I’ll rip him to
bits
in tomorrow’s column.”

Gently pressing a thick gauze
to Jenson’s wound, Mike looks confused then twigs on.

“Ah, so
this
is what you
do? Will
said
you were a sports reporter. Well, of all the gin joints
and all that.”

Brushing a chunk of glass off
my shoulder, he adds, “Go easy on him when you get home, he’s in a bit of a
state.”

I bristle, thinking I’ve
misheard.

“What?
Who’s
in a state?
Will? What sort of state? How do
you
know?”

Before he can answer, the
penalty box door swings open revealing three medics and a bright orange
stretcher. Swiftly slipping it under Jenson, they heave it up and out with a
quick ‘one, two, three,
lift
’, before I can gather my thoughts.

As Jenson disappears down the
steps towards the medical suite, Mike runs a hand through his dark, gelled
waves, giving me a flustered grin.

“I took him to the footie, you
know, to smooth things over,” he explains. “Worked a treat.”

Snapping his bag shut he zips
his leather jacket, adding, “Look, I’ve got some stitching to do. Lots by the
look of it. Stop by the treatment room later, we’ll talk.”

Tingling all over I nod, I’ll
admit, somewhat bewildered as he jogs down the steps and out of sight, just as
Bianca re-appears in a flap. Brandishing a fluffy Strikey Mike mascot like a
trophy, she whines, “I don’t bloody
believe
it! I pop out for five measly
minutes and all hell breaks loose. I hear there’s been shirts ripped off and
everything.
Bugger
!”

Idly pulling fragmented glass
out of my hair, I watch the last battle-worn players filter back to the
dressing rooms as the Zamboni trundles onto the ice, turning the swirling red
rivers into mushy pink slush. I wander to rejoin Liselle and Amy, who sit
sombrely amongst popcorn and empty beer bottles, then realise we’re one short
and glance around for Rowan. She’s nowhere to be seen.

As the crowd files out, the
players’ plastic wives scuttle down the steps to our right like a flock of
purse-clutching chickens. Sensing competition, Bi struts on ceremony, pouting
and flicking her glossy bob as the muscular Swedish Zamboni driver honks in
appreciation.

Sticking out her bum Betty
Boop-style, she blows him and exaggerated kiss. I know she’s keen to bed one,
or more, or
all
of the players. I can see it in her eyes, but if all
else fails, she’ll flip to ‘Plan Bi’, her foolproof fornication motto: ‘if you
haven’t pulled by midnight, lower your standards’.

Apparently, it never fails.

“Well, show’s over folks,” I
sigh, desperate for a brandy. “Heads’ll roll for this. Bi, stop tarting. Where
the blazes have you been?”

“I was flirting with the DJ if
you must know, mother,” she says curtly. “He was
going
to play ‘I’m
Horny’ for me, but it’s no bloody good now, is it? They’re all too battered to
get it up!”

Blotting out Bianca’s
crudeness, Liselle primly adjusts her bun, then bends to pick up something
white and pebbly beside her heel.

“God, that was
horrid
.”
she shudders. “No wonder the brats at school love it, vicious little bleeders.
That was my first and last match. Mmm, what’s this? Ivory?”

“Close,” I grimace. “Bone,
actually. It’s a front tooth, I’ll pop downstairs to see if I can find its
owner. Where’s Rowan?”

Whipping the grisly nugget out
of Liselle’s hand as she heaves, I allow Amy - lollipop-less for once - to
cover my icky coat sleeve in beer to bring out the blood.

“Gaaah! Gross,” she gags.
“Rowan took off in a flap. I tried to calm her down but I think she felt sick.
Who can blame her? It was pretty damn gut-wrenching.”

Dabbing my hands with a tissue,
she gives me a welcome squeeze, producing a squashed blueberry push pop from
her jeans pocket.

“Here, my last one. You were
dead ballsy, Sal. Is Jenson gonna be okay? That doctor dude was
lush
,
haven’t seen him before.”

Hungry eyes on stalks, Bi snaps
to attention.

“
Which
doctor dude? Huh?
Nobody mentioned a doctor dude. Which way’d he go?”

I bite my lip.

No. Eh-eh. There’s no way I’m
telling them it was Mike, I’ll never hear the end of it.

“He’s not so hot and he went
down
,”
I say breezily. “Which is where I’m going. There’s no way I can skip the press
conference now, not after that bloodbath, it’ll make the nationals.”

Beaming, Bi snakes her arm
through mine, locking it tight.

“Great. I’ll join you, moral
support. Lead the way, comrade.”

“No chance,” I tell her firmly,
detaching myself. “
You’re
taking a cab and checking on Rowan. Please? I
want to be sure she’s okay.”

It’s true - I do. But I also
have ulterior motives for wanting to be Bi-free. You see, she hasn’t seen any
action for ‘thirty-six hours, sixteen minutes and counting’, which means she’ll
settle for
anything
- including Wade Wallace, which I
seriously
can’t handle. I thought I could but I can’t.

Considering the rest of the
team have had the crap kicked out of them, taking Bianca downstairs would be
like slinging a famished lion into a room of wounded antelope. Translation:
they wouldn’t stand a chance. She’d eat them alive. Also, call me catty, but I
don’t want that big, crude mouth anywhere near Mike.

Uh-oh. Have I said that or just
thought it?

She’s staring at me now, hands
on hips like a tarty little teapot, waiting for me to crumble and take her with
me. No
way.