by Van Barrett
Before we head out to the ice, I remind everyone to stay on task and tell them not to play right into Jones' hands. Everyone seems to agree ... but I'll believe it when I see it.
I'M ON THE ICE FOR the opening draw. The Jets send Callan Jones out for the opening draw, too, and I can tell my teammates are already grinding their teeth at the mere sight of him. They all give him nasty stares every time he skates by in warmups. He just smiles like always.
He looks like he's absolutely loving life. I remember that feeling, of being a young star in the league. I felt invincible.
The game starts with some promise. I'm clicking with Dufresne, as usual – and just a few minutes into the game, I see Fresno sneak into the slot uncovered. I send a crisp, cross-crease pass to him and he snaps it home for the 1-0 lead.
Half-way through the first, Donovan unleashes his slapshot from the blueline. The Jets goalie never sees the shot thanks to the mass of bodies standing in front of him, and the puck finds its way into the net. We're up early, 2-0, and feeling pretty good about our game ...
... But a 2-0 lead in hockey is considered one of the most dangerous leads in sports. Something about being up by two goals makes you feel safe. Content. Like you can take chances and risks that you wouldn't normally take. It's a subtle psychological shift. But it's real as hell.
And the moment we get that second goal, our guys turn their attention to Jones. Our lead is safe enough that it's time to get even, as far as my teammates are concerned.
“Hey sweetheart!” Donovan, celebrating his goal, chirps at Jones as he skates by the Jets' bench. “You see that goal Jonesy? Wait 'til you see you what you got coming next ...”
Jones grins and laughs, loving the attention – and I know this back and forth won't end well if it continues. I rally the boys on the bench and try to get them to keep the foot on the gas pedal.
“Alright boys, it's 2-0 but it's still early, let's stay focused out here, c'mon!”
The rest of the first period plays out uneventfully, and we head into the second period still leading 2-0. But the Jets come out looking like a different team. Whereas before they seemed moody, uncooperative, and sleepy – now they seem inspired, ready to play as a team, and determined to even the score.
Every time the coach sends my line out on the ice, the Jets' coach throws Jones' line out on the ice. It's his job to take me off my game and keep me from scoring, and I know his mouth is gonna be running all game long. I'm actually kind of excited to see what he's got up his sleeve for me today. We circle around each other before a faceoff.
“Well well,” he says, licking his lips at me. “Most Eligible Bachelor himself.”
I chuckle. “You know it, Jonesy.”
“How much didja have to pay for that?”
I'm not really good at talking smack. I avoid it like the plague. But something about Jones makes me wanna play along. I feel like he gets me. He knows I'm just screwing around.
“Less than I paid for your Mom last night.” I wink.
“Oh, wow,” Jones rolls his eyes and he can't help but crack a smile at my awful attempt to talk shit. “A Mom joke? ... Oh, Vance ...”
For a second, I almost feel close to him. Like we could be friends if he was on my team. But then I wonder – am I letting my guard down? Is that how he's planned at getting to me?
And then he shows his hand and zeroes in on his real target.
“Saw you practicing your shot earlier today, Vance. You know the one,” he grins. “You really think you're ever gonna have that opportunity again? Face it, man ... you blew it.”
I chuckle to hide the twisting dagger in my chest. For all I know, he could be right. Lord knows I've had to think about possibility plenty of times myself. But I know better than to give him any kind of response other than to laugh with him. I drop my head and win the faceoff and tune Jones out for the rest of the night.
But Jones is better at getting under the other guys' skin. They're easier pickings, and he shifts his focus to them once they start pushing back.
Emerson, for example, recently missed a couple months' worth of games. He was out with a mystery illness that had the doctors perplexed. Finally, they found a diagnosis – Emerson had been sick with Coxsackie Virus.
“Coxsackie Virus,” Jones chuckles at Emerson after a whistle stops play. “I gotta say, I'd never heard of that one before, Emerson.”
Emerson grumbles out a warning. “Better shut your fuckin' mouth, Jones.”
“I mean – cock sack virus? – I thought the jokes were gonna be too obvious, too easy. But then I actually looked it up. And, uhhh ... Farm animals? Really, Emerson?”
Apparently, Coxsackie Virus is a rare virus that medical science doesn't know a whole lot about ... except that it comes from 'contact with farm animals.'
I gotta admit, the rest of us were all pretty freaked out when his diagnosis finally came out. We weren't sure what to think about our teammate. Obviously, you wanna believe he's not – y'know. Ugh. It's unthinkable, really.
But Emerson swore up and down he's never been to a farm in his life, much less touched any farm animals, and had no idea how he got it. All he could say was that he must've picked it up on the road somewhere.
What else can you do but shrug and say, shit happens, and try to erase it from your memory?
But it's the kind of juicy tidbit that a guy like Jones won't ever let Emerson forget.
When play is stopped and the ref isn't looking, Jones slashes at Fresno's wrist. Fresno shrieks and drops his stick – but the ref missed it, and there's no penalty. Fresno looks like he's gonna blow a gasket and he's swearing obscenities at the ref. I hurry up alongside him and push him away from the ref so we don't get a penalty.
“Take it easy, Dufresne!”
“Calisse! Did you not see that!? He slashed my hands ... that's a penalty!”
“I know, I know, but stay calm.”
Fresno screams at the ref over my shoulder as I push him further away. “How can I stay calm when these refs can't see SHIT right in front of them!”
Coach doesn't take Fresno off the ice like he should. And as soon as play begins again, Fresno seeks his revenge. He slashes at Jones' wrist. Jones yelps and shakes his hand furiously, reeling from the pain. The referee sees the slash and his arm shoots straight up to signal a penalty against Dufresne.
I groan. The whole thing was so predictable. My teammates can't help but fall for obvious traps.
On the power play, Jones adds insult to injury. He sneaks behind the net and finds a gap in coverage. A shot from the point streaks through traffic like a laser. Our goalie manages to see the puck at the last second and makes the save. But he struggles with controlling the rebound. Jones zips right into the crease, at the right time, and shovels the rebound into the gaping net.
“Wooooo!” is his celebratory howl. He goes down on one knee and pumps his fist dramatically.
The Jets are on the board and it's 2-1. Now they're feeling good, since they only need one goal to tie it, and we're playing scared. And this is why a two-goal lead is the worse lead in hockey.
Jones' next shift is another big one. He seems to be get caught flat-footed, battling for the puck at center-ice with Dufresne. Donovan sees Jones in a vulnerable spot and charges towards him, barreling towards the young player like a freight train. I see it happening in slow motion, and hell, the collision looks like it's gonna be so bad I feel like I should brace myself for it ...
But Jones sees Donovan coming out of the corner of his eye. And at the last possible second, Jones quickly side-steps out of Donovan's path. Standing right behind Jones? Fresno. And his eyes widen. It's too late for either player to do anything. Donovan has already thrown his body forward, and he can't stop now.
“Ohhhh,” the crowd groans as Donovan absolutely crushes his own teammate. It's the kind of play that makes the team's collective balls curl up into our groins. A morale killer.
Jones, at the end of his shift, ducks right off the i
ce and hops on the bench. He just dodged a huge bullet, but he's not sweating it at all. He's absolutely dying on the bench, doubled-over with laughter and pounding his glove on top of the boards.
“Hey, Don-o! Congrats!” he screams. “That was your first good hit all year!”
But the rest of us aren't laughing. Fresno is slow to get up and as he coasts to the bench, he's hunched over and clutching his side. As soon as he gets to the bench, the trainers chat with him and right away they whisk him off to the dressing room. We don't hear what he tells the trainer, but based on their reaction, we know he's hurting and that the trainers want to examine him.
A disappointment clouds our mood. We need Fresno. And losing him in a hit like that – at the hands of a teammate – makes the sting so much worse.
The coach is furious with Donovan. He staples his ass to the bench for the rest of the game. That hurts our odds – it's one less defenseman we have, which means the others have to take on more responsibility and playing time. But the punishment is justified.
Momentum swings in favor of the Jets, who take advantage of our shortened roster. If the tying goal seemed likely before, now it seemed an inevitability. The next whole minute is spent in our zone, with our guys chasing the puck around endlessly as the Jets cycled it around the boards. At last, their captain Burkhardt gets a pass and blasts a shot from between the faceoff circles. He beats our goalie Brickley cleanly and ties the game.
That second goal takes the wind out of our sails. We're dead in the water now, and our team game falls apart. Instead of playing like a team, we turn into a ragtag bunch of individuals – everyone wants to be the hero, but no one wants to play with the structured discipline that a team needs to win.
Our team is a moody bunch, going through the motions, and now Jones knows that if he pisses us off he might awaken the beast. So he quiets down and plays a calm, safe game for the rest of the night – his work is done. Now we'll hang ourselves.
The Jets will score two more, one of those belonging to Jones, before the final horn sounds.
We trudge back to our dressing room, our fans booing our performance. Guys will mumble and swear under their breath, but no one will speak out loud. Right now, we'd rather be anywhere but here. For the next quarter-hour, the only sound in our dressing room will be Velcro tearing, pads being angrily thrown into locker stalls, and zippers flying shut.
Then the team will have to let the media in for interviews. We'll hide our disappointment, our rage and shame as best we can when those microphones are jammed in our faces. We'll give the same canned answers we always give after a bad loss.
“... Well, like I said, it was a tough game. They're a hard team to play against, but we have to fight through it better, get pucks in deep and go to the net ...”
5.
Don't Look
Callan
“Yeeeeeeeah!” “Woooo!” “Fuckin' right, boys!”
We cheer and shout as we hurry back to the visitor dressing room after the game ends. Another victory eases the tensions in our dressing room. Some of the veteran guys might not always like my style, but they can't complain about it when the team is winning.
And right now, we're winning a lot.
Guys are dancing and singing along to our official post-victory song. We throw off our jerseys, our sweat-soaked pads, and the equipment managers take all our gear out of the room so it can be dried and shipped back to Winnipeg for our next game at home.
After we do our media interviews, the press guys get kicked out of the room and we strip out of our sweat-soaked underclothes and hit the showers.
With all these naked guys around me? I feel like a dog whose owner just accidentally dropped his steak dinner on the floor. I know better than to even think about going for it, no matter how much the sights and smells get me going.
But, sometimes, I manage to take peeks. So many sexy bodies. So much muscle mass – swollen and flushed. Then the boxers come off, and the dicks come out.
Just remember, Callan: Don't. Look.
Don't ever look.
'Cause if anyone knew ... I'm pretty sure I'd be off the team in a hurry. And word would spread. And my career would be over. Especially with all the shit-talking I've done in this league. I'd be a joke!
But sometimes you don't have to look, 'cause you see things just fine out of the corner of your eyes. Leo, one of my studly teammates, struts by for the shower. His big dick, nestled between huge mounds of muscular thigh, swings back and forth with an impressive heft as he walks.
Uh. Yum.
Somebody grabs my shoulders from behind and shakes me. My head whips back and forth.
“Fuckin' Jonesy!” he shouts with glee. “Good fuckin' game buddy! When Donovan hit Dufresne ... oh my god ... I'll watch that one for years!”
We crack up, slapping at each other's shoulders. On one hand, I feel kinda sorry for Dufresne – he got nailed, after all, and didn't look like he was in such great shape after it. The guy is kinda puny – he never wants to be engaged in the physical stuff. He avoids it like the plague. So it sucks to see him get hit like that.
But uh, on the other hand, that could've been me getting destroyed. So yeah, better him than me.
Burkhardt, fresh from his shower, walks across the room with a towel tied around his waist. While everyone else is celebrating the win, Burky looks all surly and pissed off, and I'm sure it's because everyone's congratulating me on a great game.
“Meat-Tree's a little sore, eh?” one of the younger guys chuckles, discreetly pointing at our captain.
“Yeah,” I stifle a laugh. “Watch this.”
I grab a tube of IcyHot and squeeze it so a big glob spurts out in my palm.
My teammate gets a worried look. “Uh oh, Jonesy, what're you thinkin' here ...”
I grin. “Just watch.”
I get up and walk behind Burky right as he drops he towel. With his bare-ass exposed and vulnerable, I yell, “Great game tonight, Meat-Stick!”
And ... SMACK!
My palm, greased up with IcyHot, cracks his bare-ass cheek so goddamn hard. The clap is so piercingly loud, my ears actually ring from it. Burky yelps and recoils, grabbing his butt and trying to soothe the pain – not even knowing he's rubbing IcyHot into his battered skin. The room breaks out in an uproar – guys are falling all over each other, pointing at my red-hot palm print that is absolutely seared into our captain's bare ass.
“You motherfucker!” Burky growls. “Fuck, it burns! And ...what the fuck? It's getting hotter! What the fuck!”
Burky starts fanning his ass, wondering why his cheeks are on fire. Everyone laughs even harder.
At last I take mercy on him and hold up the tube of IcyHot and show him. “It's IcyHot, Burky! I'm sorry, man, I had to!”
“Goddamnit, Jones!” Burky mutters and sprints to the showers to rinse off again.
Everyone else shakes their head, still laughing, as they get dressed and leave the dressing room.
“Good shit, CJ.” “You're fucked up, Jonesy, but I love ya.” “Only you would ever do that.”
“See ya boys on the plane tomorrow morning,” I say to a group as they head out.
But I hang around. I know it was kind of a fucked up prank. Even though me and Burky don't always see eye to eye, I like him. I think deep down, he's a good guy. And I hope he isn't too pissed at me. So I wait for him to finish his second shower.
It's just me and him in the room when he comes back. My hand print is still bright red, lobster red really, on his butt.
“I'm sorry, Burky,” I say honestly. “I shouldn't have done that.”
“Yeah, you're fuckin' right you shouldn't have. I'm the captain around here, Jones. You pull shit like that around here and you make me look like a fuckin' schmuck. You undermine my authority with those stunts, you fuckin' knob!”
Jeez. He's always takes things too seriously.
I suck my cheeks in with a smack. “Yeah. You're right. Sorry Burky. I understand if you wanna ba
g skate me next practice, or punish me in front of the team – whatever ya gotta do.”
(Bag skate: repetitive and strenuous skating drills, often used as punishment. A bag skate ends when a player/team is so totally exhausted, a barf bag might be needed – hence the name.)
I'm hoping to make amends. But Burky just shakes his head at me.
“Just get outta my sight already.”
I shrug. “Alright. Have a good night. Sorry again.”
I'M NOT TOO WORRIED about the little dust-up with Burky. Teams don't always get along, there will always be elements that don't see eye to eye, no matter how good your team is. Sure, what I did was immature and stupid – but I did it because he's always riding my ass in the first place! Anyone should be able to figure that out.
Anyway, we all head back to our hotel after the game. We head out for a post-game meal and some drinks. Burky's with us, too, and he seems normal now and I assume that he's gotten over it. He probably just needed some time to get over his sore ass ... no pun intended.
After dinner, the guys wanna head out to some bars. I tell 'em no thanks, not tonight – I'm gonna go out for a stroll and get some fresh air. The guys put up a stink and say it'd be so much more fun with me, and why the hell would I wanna be alone in Chicago?
But I just chuckle and say, “I just wanna explore a little bit of the city.”
Which isn't a lie.
I just don't tell them which part of Chicago I wanna explore.
A little before midnight, I pull the brim of my hat down over my eyes, stuff my hands in my pockets and head to a gay night club I read about earlier online. Apparently, from the reviews I read – the music is loud, the drinks are strong, the boys are hot, and the dance floor turns into a steamy freakin' jungle at night. It's dark, unlit, and it's an easy place to escape to if you're trying not to be seen.