Run to You (9 page)

Before long, Brandon gave Greta the key to his apartment. And they spent some time there too.

Tony Goldina, a forward who had been around the NHL for nine years, was picked up by the Ice Bandits from the Pittsburgh Penguins just before the trade deadline. He’d toiled for five different teams in his long career, and had played in one Stanley Cup Final, with the Penguins. But never a Cup.

Zach stretched out on a table in the trainer’s room. “Ohh, I’m as stiff as a chicken eating shit. That was a rough workout.”

Vyto was staring at the mirror and making funny faces.

Goalies were a special breed, everyone knew, but this was special even for Vyto. “What the hell are you doing?” Brandon asked him.

“Eye exercise. I can see puck better.”

Tony was there, riding a stationary bike and chatting with Dale. Then Brandon walked in, amid the hubbub and camaraderie of the locker room.

He loved this atmosphere. But there was something to be said for quiet too. You could accomplish a lot at a quiet worktable. Greta taught him that on the days when he watched her work on her various projects.

“My old car is about to croak. It makes a funny noise, and I don’t think the brakes work they way they should.”

“You have to get it fixed, Ma. Don’t fool around with the brakes.”

“Let me call now. It takes forever to get an appointment. Just to get a car fixed.” Greta’s mother picked up the receiver and called the car repair shop.

She was on hold for a few minutes, which made her upset. “Can’t they get people to answer the phone? All these stupid message machines that play that…oh, yes, young man, you can help me. I’d like to have someone check my car. It makes noises. And you should look at the brakes, too.”

The appointment was made, for the following Tuesday. But Greta’s mother had one more request.

“Make sure you don’t give me the guy who keeps checking his fly. I got him last time, and I don’t want to see him again.”

The long NHL season was winding down. Only three games were left on the regular schedule, and the top seeds in the East and West still hadn’t been decided. The Ice Bandits had a good shot at the top seed. They had two home games and a road game in Nashville. One home game was against Milwaukee. But the other game promised to be a humdinger. The first-place Quebec Voyageurs were in town.

Quebec and Milwaukee were the two expansion teams that began play last year. Milwaukee had their ups and downs, as an expansion team usually did, but Quebec got a good team in a hurry. And they were an arrogant bunch as they continued winning.

The Quebec roster was filled with bastards from top to bottom. The goalie looked like a brick wall, and tended goal like one. Their team captain, Dell Lambdin, was a big goon from Minnesota. Their two top defensemen…one Brandon remembered from Team Canada at the Winter Olympics. The other was the favorite for the Norris Trophy. And the news was they had picked up a big bad forward, fresh from the Olympics, to make the team bigger and badder. Even their Coach looked like a wrestler.

Brandon couldn’t wait. Better yet, Greta would be there, for her first hockey game. Brandon would make sure that a good time was had by all. Except for those Quebec bastards.

He forgot the number to call for tickets, the will-call tickets, left for family and friends. Brandon wanted to be sure Greta sat near the front, so she could see the speed and feel the intensity of the game. He picked up his cell and looked for the number.

And then he saw the latest news on the Ice Bandits’ news feed. The big bad forward, new to the Voyageurs, was Niklas Eriksen. The star of Team Sweden. Brandon could never forget that face, or the shape of that big body either.

He had seen that body, naked, in bed with his former fiancée.

Brandon caught his breath, and his heart pounded.

Oh, would he welcome him to the NHL. A big bad welcome.

Brandon stood in the dark Arena, listening to the last bars of “O Canada.”

Then a man in a suit sang “The Star Spangled Banner” and the fans, Greta included, really started their noise.

Ice Bandits fans always cheered and shouted during the singing of the anthem. The racket seemed louder, more passionate than usual, and Chicago had the most passionate sports fans Brandon had ever seen.

The yelling rang in his ears and made his head pound even harder. He took a deep breath as the anthem ended and the Arena erupted. This place would be rockin’ tonight. And he, Brandon, would make it rock, he vowed. The Ice Bandits would play the Quebec Voyageurs tonight, and beat them, and beat them good. Show that expansion team what a real team could do. Those pretenders had no business closing in on a top playoff spot, not in their second year of existence.

Brandon was bound and determined to give a special welcome to the Voyageurs’ newest player, Niklas Eriksen, fresh from Team Sweden in the Winter Olympics. Fresh out of bed with Terri. Even now, when Brandon found Greta, he still wanted Niklas to know that he didn’t get away with anything.

Niklas would get his tonight, and he didn’t mean a roll in the hay.

The puck dropped, and the game began. Brandon and Zach started as the two defensemen, along with Kyle, Mike and Dale, the forwards, and Vyto as goaltender. Even Dale Wallace, the enforcer, got a start before Tony Goldina.

Brandon could see right away why Quebec challenged this year. This team came out roaring, and played an aggressive form of hockey. No finesse here. The Voyageurs were led by the team captain, Dell Lambdin, who wore a scowl as proudly as he wore the C on his chest.

Niklas came out on the ice for his shift.

Brandon sat on the bench and couldn’t wait to get back out there.

Nobody but Zach knew about the surprise, the nasty surprise, Brandon found in his hotel room at the Olympic Village. Zach didn’t mention anything about Eriksen being on the Voyageurs; at least, he didn’t mention it to Brandon, in all their chit-chat before the game.

Brandon couldn’t shake the image. Even though Greta was his girl now, he could still see his Terri, the girl he loved…or thought he loved…with Niklas.

He didn’t even tell Greta. Yet. Maybe sometime…

“Taylor, get in there.”

Brandon leapt over the wall and got on the ice.

There was Niklas, big bold Niklas, the new star of the Quebec Voyageurs.

Brandon’s eyes turned the color of the coldest ice.

Niklas skated past Brandon. “Not the Olympics here.”

The big forward looked at Brandon as if he were garbage, and Brandon returned the look.

As the minutes ticked off the clock, neither team could score. Brandon and Niklas continued to exchange glares. As the second period began, it was still 0-0.

“I play this game with my stick, not with a fuckin’ dirty look,” Niklas muttered, skating away too fast for Brandon to touch him.

“Let’s see that dirty look when we fuckin’ score,” said Brandon.

He had to do it now. Get him to drop his gloves and fight like a man.

A blur to him, as a skater wearing black and white got past him and scored a goal. It was Dell Lambdin.

Niklas raised his hands and hugged his team captain, as the fans booed.

Brandon seethed. The pit of his stomach burned. It was his job, as defenseman, to stop him, and he didn’t, and they scored. Dell scored and Quebec led, 1-0.

“Get him next time, Sparky,” Zach called to him. Coach Jock glared from the bench. Brandon should have stopped him right there.

Now that son of a bitch got him in Coach’s doghouse, besides everything else.

Three minutes to go in the second period. Brandon had to get him now. Niklas was back out, skating close, closer.

Then the big forward spoke first. “Taylor, I did not rape anyone.”

Brandon whirled around and let him have it, a punch to the chin that took the big forward by surprise. His shock only lasted a second or two, as the gloves peeled off, the helmets flew off, and the two battled.

The fans screamed and yelled and pounded on the glass. “Go get him, Brandon!”

On the bench, the Ice Bandits couldn’t believe what they saw. Brandon wasn’t known to be an enforcer. This was for the goal in the second period?

The referees kept their distance as the two fought. Brandon grabbed Niklas’ jersey and hit him, even as Brandon felt his own face absorbing the big Swede’s blows. His eye throbbed, and blood dripped from his chin. Niklas played hard, and he hit hard, too.

So did Brandon.

After an eternity of two minutes, the referees separated the fighters.

Brandon gulped. His chest heaved. He blinked to see and clear his vision, and wiped the sweat and blood away with his hand. His hand hurt, too. Zach and Kyle grabbed him and pulled him away from Niklas. Dell Lambdin and a few other Voyageurs came to their teammate’s side, and the fight was over.

Brandon looked at Niklas’ rugged face, covered with bruises, with a black eye himself. And he’d need a few stitches. His white Voyageurs road uniform was stained red.

“Get off your fuckin’ throne, Taylor!” He hollered. “You take the same size jock as my little brother!”

“If I wanted to play with a big dick, I’d play with my own!” Brandon shot back.

Brandon and Niklas skated to their benches, and Brandon wondered how many penalty minutes he’d get. Or if he’d be fined.

Or worse. He caught the glare Coach Jock gave him.

Well, now he’d have time to contemplate his sins. He wanted to get Niklas Eriksen. He could never quite get even, but he got his licks in.

Brandon wound up sitting on the bench.

The fans booed heartily when Quebec scored again.

Amid the Voyageurs’ celebration, an Ice Bandit lay on the ice and waited for the trainers to get to him.

Mike DeBerry slammed his stick in disgust as the two trainers helped him to his feet. He was unsteady as he was led off the ice.

Greta watched the game intently, although she didn’t understand what she was looking at. The Ice Bandits got a power play, that she guessed was something good. Then some fans booed when the Ice Bandits didn’t score during the two minutes of the power play.

She watched Brandon more than the others, and noted the players came out for short shifts. Hockey was a much more fast and intense game than she figured. She started to see how the game was played, and listened to the fans around her. Ice Bandits fans were quite vocal, and had opinions about everything. She also heard quite a few swear words, more than she’d ever heard at one time.

The stadium erupted in boos when the final horn sounded. Quebec 2, Chicago 0.

The atmosphere in the Ice Bandits’ dressing room was ugly, to say the least. On top of the loss to that arrogant Voyageurs team, there was the unexpected fight, and the loss of Mike DeBerry. No one knew the extent of his injury yet, or exactly where he was hurt; the announcers reported a “lower body injury.” But they couldn’t afford to lose him for one single game, not with the long season coming to an end and the playoffs—the second season—looming.

Brandon just sat in the dressing room and didn’t think. He could barely breathe. And he didn’t want to think. He felt tripped, slashed, iced and hooked. And speared and cross-checked.

“Taylor. Don’t ever do that again.” Dale Wallace was talking to him. Brandon didn’t look up.

“Hey, Taylor. You hear me? I’m the enforcer on this team. Don’t you…”

“Wallace, you didn’t find your woman in bed with that big bastard!”

Dale blinked. He didn’t expect that response from his teammate.

The hubbub in the locker room stopped.

Brandon knew all eyes were on him. He sighed, and put his head in his hands. His right hand still hurt from clobbering that asshole. Funny, how his hands hurt worse than any other body part.

The guys turned to their lockers. All was quiet, for the first time in the Ice Bandits’ long season.

A clubhouse aide approached him. “Brandon Taylor? Coach wants to see you.”

Fuck. What would he say? Was he suspended? Now, during the last few games of the season, fighting for first place and home ice advantage?

Brandon stood up and slowly made his way to Coach Jock’s office. He couldn’t think. He didn’t want to think. His body and his head hurt too much.

He found himself standing outside the door. It was open.

“Brandon, please come in.”

He entered the room. Coach motioned to a chair, and Brandon sank into it.

“Brandon. I know you. I’ve known you since you were a seventeen year old first round draft pick. You were a real sparkplug on your team.”

That’s where that nickname came from. Sparky.

“Brandon, what the hell was that about? Because he scored? You thought maybe the Ice Bandits couldn’t get even?”

“Coach, I had to get even myself. It was personal.”

“Does this go back to the Olympics?” Coach rubbed his big black mustache.

Jacques LeFebvre became a NHL coach due to his expertise, his supreme knowledge of the game, his experience, but he also took the time to know his players. He took an interest in his boys, not just as athletes, but also as young men with great talent and tremendous pressure placed on them at an early age.

He knew Brandon was one of the best he’d ever coached, a superstar in the making.

And Brandon knew, his part was to devote himself to his game, and that he did. He respected Coach Jock. He thought the world of this man who’d shaped him, prodded him, sometimes yelling at him, to get the very best out of him.

Brandon had to be honest with him.

“Yes, Coach. It does go back to the Olympics. To the night we won the gold.” His throat closed up, and he couldn’t go on.

“But you beat the United States for the gold. Not Sweden.”

Brandon took a deep breath. God, even his chest hurt.

“And when I got back to my room at the Village, I found Niklas Eriksen in my room. In my bed. With my fiancée. My former fiancée.”

Brandon couldn’t continue. He buried his face in his sore hands.

Even now, months after it was over, and he met Greta, the memory still burned within him. He had to get even with that bastard. Maybe it cost him, in money and other ways, but he had to let Niklas Eriksen know that he knew what happened that night at the Olympic Village, and he did not forget.