Delayed Penalty Part 4

When I first asked a girl out, I was twelve, she was thirteen, and she shot me down. My mom told me the right girl was out there for me. All moms had to say that, but I kind of believed her even through my tears. Yes, I cried when she shot me down.

It was a hard shot to take at twelve when the first girl you asked out crushed your soul, like you didn't even have one to begin with. I eventually got the nerve to ask another girl out. That time I was sixteen, and she said yes.

We dated for probably a year and then hockey got in the way. I was a bit of a flirt and Jessica, the girl I dated in high school, didn't like that so much.

I ended up losing my virginity to her best friend in the back of her car after my Major Juniors team won the J. Ross Robertson Cup that year.

Yeah, douche move, but I was a kid, and I liked to think I wouldn't ever do that s.h.i.+t again.

During my last season in the Major Juniors, I played on the ice, but I got my fair share of play off the ice, too. After I was drafted, I had more p.u.s.s.y thrown my way than I knew what to do with. There were times I could have had at least four or five girls a night and the same thing the next night, only with different girls. It was insane.

That gets old, though. After a while you realize they were only there because of your status. It had absolutely nothing to do with them really liking you.

We went straight from Nashville back to Chicago to play them again, this time on home ice.

When we got to the airport, I contemplated heading to the hospital. I knew visiting hours were long gone, and even if I did see her, the images would only p.i.s.s me off.

Game 38 Nashville Predators.

Sunday, December 27, 2009.

(Home Game).

The boys and I were tired during the morning skate. We skated around, pa.s.sing pucks between ourselves, ignoring O'Brien in the corner. Every so often he'd shout something at us, but we would ignore him just for the h.e.l.l of it. We liked to p.i.s.s him off sometimes. Coming off a win last night, we tested our luck. Had we lost, there would have been a different mood on the ice.

Finally, O'Brien blew the whistle and our unwanted drills began. We skated to the cadence of his relentless chatter, sprinting in between the blue lines, coasting through the corners, and then sprinting again; it continued for several minutes. We practiced more than we played, but doing so we worked toward one goal: becoming a team. We focused on power plays, face-offs, fore-checking, breakout putters, practicing, and conditioning. We never enjoyed it, but we understood where it led us.

The whistle blew again, followed by more words of instructions, and then we teamed up by our jersey color into line rushes: two-on-ones and one-on-ones.

We couldn't control our energy from the win, Remy and Leo especially. Each bad play became more entertaining and amusing than the last. When Ryan's pa.s.s to Leo crashed against the underside of a seat, five rows into the stands, O'Brien blew his whistle and called for a scrimmage.

Leo got in line. "I wanna shove that f.u.c.king whistle up his a.s.s," he remarked, skating by.

I chuckled, the thought not far from my mind either.

Scrimmage didn't go any better. At first, he stopped the play with each mistake he saw, but eventually he gave up. It turned into a game of us messing around, breakaways, and countless goals. We celebrated in a suggestively vulgar manner we were unable to do when twenty thousand fans were watching.

After practice, Leo and Remy were hunting. They found a Gatorade Ryan left in his locker while he was in the shower, so they unscrewed the cap and taped his shoes together. Leo left and I checked my phone, looking for any indication the hospital might have called to tell me Ami was awake. Maybe then I'd stop thinking about her. I had it in my head that if she would wake up, I'd know that she would be fine and could finally move on.

Ryan came back from his shower and turned on the television and then took a seat next to me. He lifted the Gatorade to put it in his bag. A wash of red liquid went all over his clean pants.

"f.u.c.king Leo!"

Laughter broke out in the shower.

Most of the time I would leave right after the morning skate, but sometimes I lingered around the players' lounge a little longer before we ate lunch. Comfortable around my boys, I found it a place to unwind and think about what the night would bring. The players' lounge became our refuge. When restaurants, streets, and basically any public place were no longer options, when the team plane, buses, and even the locker room were cluttered with press, we had this room. For an hour and half before the games, there were no coaches, no press, no friends, no fans, and no family. It was just us boys, the Chicago Blackhawks, uniting, getting along, and turning the team into a family.

Resting my head against the side of my cubby, one thought was never far from my mind: the girl.

After the morning skate and lunch, I reached inside my wallet and pulled out the business card Detective Paulsen gave me. I dialed the number and waited for him to answer. When he didn't I left a message asking if he had any leads, knowing he wouldn't call me back. It was probably against whatever rules they had, seeing how I had no ties to Ami.

Instead of taking a nap like I usually would, I went back to the hospital to check on Ami.

Wendy was there smiling when I walked up to the third floor. Gloating over her night with Leo, I asked her some more personal questions about Ami. She divulged a few details I didn't know.

She told me that a man came to see her, Blake Keldrick. I recognized the name as her dance instructor the detective said he questioned.

"He's kinda weird," she said, her attention on her paperwork, feet propped up on her desk. There was a moment of silence, and then Wendy cautiously asked, "Do you even know this girl?"

"Weird how?" I leaned against the same desk, avoiding her question, overly curious as to who this Blake guy was and why he was visiting Ami. I knew who he was, but why would he need to see her?

Look at me. Already jealous of her visitors. f.u.c.king pathetic.

Wendy shrugged. "Just weird. He seemed bothered that we wouldn't let him in to see her. It was almost as if he had to see her. The whole situation struck me as odd. He wanted to know who brought her in, if they said anything, if she said anything, and he kept at it until Dr. Dagger asked him to leave. Then he was p.i.s.sed."

"He didn't go in her room?" The thought that I was the only one that had seen her rea.s.sured me. Crazy I know.

"Yep." She winked. "No visitors allowed."

It made me feel better to know that I was the only one allowed in there. I didn't like the idea of this Blake guy hanging around either. I needed to meet this guy for sure.

I didn't go inside her room, out of fear maybe, but it was enough that I was within a few feet of her room. For now.

I had a game. I gave Wendy my cell number and told her to call me if there was any change in Ami's condition. She said she would and asked me to tell Leo to call her.

I would have told Leo, but I doubted he'd even care. Maybe he might call her again, though usually he didn't. He and Remy were the same way. It was like a f.u.c.king contest between Leo, Remy, and Dave to see if they could f.u.c.k every girl in Chicago. I had a feeling they were close to that goal already. Just as I was leaving the hospital, guess who came back?

Yep. Blake. I knew it was him by the way he walked. Dancers had that way about them, especially male dancers. That wasn't what confirmed it for me; it was when he told the nurse at the counter his name.

"She's not allowed any visitors right now," the nurse told him.

I smiled, knowing I'd just been outside her room and could have gone in if I wanted.

Blake groaned, running his hand over his face. "Listen, I just need to talk to her. It'll only take a few minutes. I need to know that she's okay. I'm worried about her."

The nurse took a more abrasive approach. "You can't see her right now, and you certainly cannot talk to her. She's in a coma. No visitors allowed."

I didn't know much about Blake, but it was apparent Blake was worried about something. Why else would he be pus.h.i.+ng to see her this much?

As he was leaving, I decided to have a little chat with him. "Blake?" I followed him out the doors of the emergency room and to his car.

Surprised, he turned around to face me with a.s.sessing eyes. "Who are you?"

My tone and smirk were condescending and they were meant to be. "I'm Evan Masen." I let my name sink in for a moment. He knew right then I was a hockey player. If my size and defensive edge didn't give it away, my name did. Blake swallowed. He knew exactly who the f.u.c.k I was, and it wasn't just off the name. He'd seen me before. Here. We pa.s.sed in the hall the other night. Now that I had a face to go with the name, I knew just how often he'd been coming here. "I'm actually the guy that brought Ami into the hospital the night she was attacked. I saved her." I let that part sink in for a moment, too. He swallowed again, knowing where I was going with this. "Why do you keep coming back here?" That was when it got interesting because his mood went from I-don't-know-you-or-what-you-want to I'm-hiding-something.

He s.h.i.+fted his stance, fidgeting with his keys. "Ami was staying with me. When I heard what happened, I wanted to...see if she was okay."

I snorted and looked at him, only him. "She's not okay. She's had three surgeries on her brain and had her spleen removed. Her lung was punctured, and there isn't an inch of skin that doesn't have a bruise on it." I watch his reaction closely, and then added, "And she was raped."

That was when he flinched, and once again, his mood changed and he got defensive. "It wasn't me. I had dinner with her that night, and I told the detective that. But that's when our night ended."

"What were you doing having dinner with her anyway?"

"She lived with me," he said, as though the reason they were having dinner should have been obvious.

"And you're married, yes?" I knew he was married when the detective let it slip the last time I spoke with him.

Blake gave me this dumbfounded look and then swallowed. "I'm not talking to you about this."

I shrugged. "Fair enough. I hope you have a lawyer."

"I hope you do, too." His dark brown eyes gave me the once over he'd been dying to do since I approached him. It was the once over that screamed, "I know you think you're hot s.h.i.+t, but you're not." It was a look a lot of guys dished out, especially to athletes. "It'd be a shame to lose that $5.7 million contract over a rape charge."

He played that one to his advantage, didn't he?

Yeah, well, I can play, too. He missed the part when I stripped the puck from his stick. "You own that dance studio, don't you?" I wasn't dumb. As soon as I found out about Blake Keldrich, I looked into that Ballet Chicago and knew everything there was to know about him. If he thought I couldn't play dirty, he was wrong.

Blake turned and clicked the b.u.t.ton on his remote to unlock his car. "Have a nice day, Mase."

I still wasn't letting him get to that puck. No way. There was one thing about my defensive skills that some underestimated. It was a furiously frightening thing that could sneak up on you when you least expected it.

I didn't get over that conversation quickly, but being surrounded by twenty thousand screaming fans had the ability to take your mind off a lot of things. Thankfully, it worked for me that night, for the few hours I was there. The lights, the music, the adrenaline, and aggression had a way of taking over.

Play was rough; it seemed Nashville was looking for some redemption, and Remy and their center were at it again.

Remy was never afraid to stand up and defend the line when needed. Most wingers were after the puck, but Remy...he'd do it all. A few penalties later we were rewarded with a power play.

The shot was smothered by their goalie and play stopped at the crease when the whistle blew for hooking, which drew the Predators into a penalty.

As is started back up, we moved back into their zone. Travis Sono was along the boards with the puck when the Predators were called for off-sides again.

Forehand, backhand, you just had to put the puck where you could, and we were doing that despite the penalties.

One of Nashville's defenseman, Scott Bunten, also known as one of the most aggressive enforcers-guys that play strictly to f.u.c.k you up-started getting in Leo's face after each play.

Sometimes enforcers were just there to make a point, change the game.

Well, they needed to know we weren't going to stand for it. Whenever they did that, I'd go after one of their guys because I wasn't going to let them pick on Leo like that and neither was Dave. I could see him fuming beside me, ready to pounce on Scott given the chance. Any time Dave or I were out there, they pulled Scott, knowing what we'd do.

To prove my point, I ended up dropping gloves with one of their left wingmen, Alex Lefler, which couldn't have been a worse match up, but I had to make a point.

I ended up breaking his cheekbone and jaw. I never wanted to hurt him like that, but I wasn't going to let them treat Leo that way either. They took liberties with our best players, and they were held accountable. That was just the type of guy I was.

Leo pa.s.sed me the puck as soon as I got on the ice after the major for fighting. "Work 'em low!" Remy shouted to my right.

From center ice, I read the goalie. You had to get him to move, and once he got down, you needed to get the puck up, and I could do that when needed, over and over again. If they weren't sliding in or we needed to get creative, I did that. Keading was all over me, so I pa.s.sed to Leo and then Remy, and I was freed up in position. Moving the puck, I swept around the back of the net, flipped it up, and stuffed in the top side to tie the game.

We were up by one, leading into the third period, when s.h.i.+t went south. It was a good, fast game that night, and it seemed the linesmen decided they would stop looking. That was when they started with the s.h.i.+tty calls. I got called for roughing when I shoved their center for mouthing off. Then, when he kept it up, I nailed him against the boards a little rougher than necessary, and he was out revenge after that.

Remy and I both tried to convince the coach to let us return the gestures, but he knew where they were going with it. The answer was always a distinct, "No! Play the f.u.c.king game. They push, you push right back. Defend that blue line, boys!"

But he was playing me, too. He used me to draw a penalty and create a power play. He would skate up to me, chirp, and start s.h.i.+t. I'd drop my gloves, and he'd cover up like a f.u.c.king p.u.s.s.y. I'd be slapped with a penalty because he wasn't allowed to fight me.

So I'd sit in the box while they worked up the ice.

I had just come onto the ice, watching Remy set up the play off the blue line, when Keading came out of nowhere and slammed me so hard into the boards the gla.s.s shattered. He wasn't gonna fight me, but f.u.c.k if he wasn't going to get me when I wasn't looking A little dazed, I sat on the bench wondering what day it was.

"f.u.c.k, Mase, did you let him come in your mouth, too? Because he f.u.c.ked you," Leo said, shaking his head as we entered the locker room after losing to the Predators by one point.

Leo was always such a nasty f.u.c.ker, but I didn't care. I took such a rock on that play, I saw double the next day.

We ended up winning against Nashville again.

The thrill of the victory brought excitement with it, and I was finally feeling like I could breathe and not think of Ami.

Leaving with women was always easy when you were underage and in a bar full of the Chicago Blackhawks. All I had to do was make conversation, smile, and they were leaving with me. I didn't take many back to my place. It was never good if they found out where you lived.

Back at her place, my mind was still on the game, the excitement of the win, and the girl unzipping my pants. We were naked pretty quick, still up against her door, when she unwrapped her legs, stood, and led me to her room.

Hovering over the girl, ready for action, that was when the feeling of dread, anxiety, hopelessness, and anger came back. My vision went gray around the edges. It was everything I could do not to gasp at the memory of my b.l.o.o.d.y clothes on the floor and then her body in the snow...f.u.c.k.

This isn't happening. When did I turn into this guy?

I closed my eyes just to try and breathe, but it was like there was no air in the room. I started hyperventilating because I was thinking of Ami and what she went through. My mind went straight to what Ami must have seen, felt, and heard while she was brutally attacked. Could she see him hovering over her like this? I stared at the girl underneath me, her blonde flowing hair wrapped around my hand, and I thought it could have been like that for Ami. f.u.c.k.

With quick, short breaths, I pulled away from the girl, but my heart wouldn't calm down. "I'm sorry. I can't."

I felt like s.h.i.+t. I felt like an a.s.shole. I wanted to shake myself and say, "Get yourself together," but I couldn't.

She looked up at me with tears in her eyes. She wanted this. Being with me like this was probably something she would remember long after I forgot her name. I knew that; I was used to that.

But now things had changed.

"It's not you, honey," I said, trying to convey that it wasn't her at all. This was my own s.h.i.+t. I swallowed, my hands shaking as another image plagued me, the one of her when I left the hospital the other night. I shook my head and cleared my throat. "I need to get out of here."

Sitting back on my heels, I moved away, reaching for my clothes. When I got to the door, I hesitated. I didn't want this girl thinking it was something she did. Running my hands through my hair, I gave her a smile and wrote my number on a piece of mail she had on the counter. "Maybe some other time."

As soon as I got outside, I felt physically ill again, and the girl I left on the bed hadn't helped. Any other time I knew she would have been exactly what I needed after the win, and maybe even the next morning. But she reminded me too much of Ami. She had blonde hair and a tiny body, and I lost it. I had to leave.

My problem was, I kept thinking about what she went through, what she felt, over and over again. Would she would remember? She was in my zone whether I wanted to admit it or not.

Cherry picking When a team's player stays near their opponent's defensive zone waiting for an outlet to pa.s.s in order to receive a breakaway.

Game 46 Anaheim Ducks.

Sunday, January 10, 2010.

(Home Game).