Page 67 of Game Misconduct
“Well, don’t fight, Michael. You’re not playing the same kind of game you were then; you don’t have to.”
“I know, I’m just...fuckin’ worried, bud.”
“I promise you; you’ll be fine. And if someone has to fight, I’ll do it for you.”
“You would?”
“Anything for you, mon chum.”
Mike didn’t know what to say, so he hugged her, impulsively, something he didn’t often do. Her initial surprise gave way almost immediately to hugging him back. It was just nice. But he felt that displacement, off-balance. He had always been tense, turned inward, and now he was like...well, there was like a lot of fucking character growth going on this year, is all he was saying, and he had some growing pains to work out.
Once he was actually out on the ice, it was easier. His parents might have been in the stands, but Bee was on the ice with him and Danny was probably watching at home. He could do it. Mike was playing with Lindy on the second pair that night, which his parents wouldn’t understand, but which made it easier to play a more technical game. He was up against a better caliber of player, and he had to watch it.
These days, he spent a lot of his time on the ice just moving the puck. But moving it productively. Watching his old games, it was painful how fucking sloppy he’d been. Turnovers and icing all over the place. All of the times he’d panicked and just yeeted the puck over the glass. Constant drilling in skating and puck handling had paid off, though, and he usually either got the passes directly to the forwards, or close enough that they could keep it moving out of the neutral zone. Sometimes he’d join the rush and pinch, but Mike still felt nervous about that, like he knew he had the capability to play more offensively, but he hadn’t quite gotten the confidence to do it yet.
His parents were watching.
They wouldn’t know the difference, but he would.
The Blades played decent hockey, clean, for the most part. He didn’t fight but he was playing his goddamn ass off. By the end of the second period he was sweating heavily, his legs a little shaky. They were tied 2–2; Singer and Netty had scored, and the bench was the usual chaos of a close game where there was still all the time in the world to lose it.
Mike looked up and saw himself on the Jumbotron, chewing on his mouthguard. He’d been scowling before realizing he was on camera, but when he did, he popped it back in and mouthed,hi, Mom, and waved. There was a smattering of laughter from the stands, and Mike felt fucking weird again. He was used to getting booed; he wasn’t used to that.
And then in the third period, with two minutes left in the game and the score still tied, it happened.
Netty took a stupid penalty and skated, spitting, to the box. Coach had been trying Mike out on PK more often, so he was on the ice when the Blades pulled their goalie to try to take advantage of the situation. He kind of felt like he was going to puke, because if he fucked this up, he was going to feel really fucking responsible for the loss.
Mike didn’t mind getting knocked around, and he was certainly getting knocked around by the Blades’ forwards as he tried to block them from scoring chances. It didn’t quite work and this was one of those times he wished he had anything close to Danny’s size. Mäkelä excelled in those chaotic battles, though, his body twisting and flopping as he grabbed for the puck and sent it back into play, right to Mike, who had left the scrum to Lindy and was wide open.
He took a quick assessment. Sally and Andy were covered and Lindy was too close to the net. With a burst of speed, Mike rushed the puck forward. It took the Blades a second to realize what had happened, but by then it was too late; Mike was already over the red line, brain screaming,careful with your skates, careful with your fucking skates.
He had three options. He could pass to Sally, still behind him, and let him handle it. He could let one of the Blades’ forwards catch up with him, which was going to happen if he didn’t make up his mind goddamn soon, because they were probably faster than him. Or he could do something he never would have been able to do last year because he wouldn’t have even had the puck here last year.
Mike pulled the stick back to his shoulder, swung it down.
The slapshot was a stupid showy move, because the windup needed took forever and you didn’t usually have that time; he almost never made them, never had. He was never going to be able to get the kind of power that a guy who was six and a half feet tall could manage, but Mike was still surprisingly strong, and sometimes, when no one was watching, he’d just line ’em up in practice and let them fly. It was muscle memory at this point, slapping the ice behind the puck, bending the stick as it hit and rolling his wrists.
He almost didn’t realize it had actually gone into the empty net until he heard the goal horn and Sally and Lindy had practically boarded him cellying and Bee was screaming loud enough from the bench that he could hear her over the racket.
Mike sat out the rest of the game, his heart thumping in his chest, knocking against his ribs. He downed an entire bottle of water but still felt like he was maybe having a heart attack. It wasn’t the kind of game that actually mattered, or at least it wouldn’t have mattered to anyone else, but he’d won it in one of the showiest fuckin’ ways possible, and he felt, like, whatever else happened, at least he’d shown his parents what he was capable of doing.
Really, what he wanted to do was talk to Danny, see what he thought about the risk Mike had taken, what he could have improved. He wouldn’t be able to do that until later. He still had to do the postgame, shower, and see his parents before they went back to Gardena.
Mike was used to his team being good about shit, but he certainly wasn’t fucking used to dudes on the other team telling him it had been a good shot or being complimentary about anything, really, but they were doing it, as they all filed off of the ice. Even if it was grudging, he almost felt a little drunk. He mumbled his way through the postgame interviews and said something like,well, you’re always just trying to get the puck in the net, because like...really that explained everything.
His parents were waiting outside of the visitors’ dressing room, and Mike’s chest clenched again, because they were both wearing his jersey. Number 13. He’d bought them after it was clear that he wasn’t getting traded again, but he hadn’t actually ever expected Mom and Dad to wear them. It looked fucking weird, actually, because Mom was always wearing severe buttoned shirts and blazers, and Dad always looked like he’d rolled off the set ofMr. Rogers, and itfeltweird. It was good, but uncomfortable, like they were making fun of him somehow.
Mike took a deep breath and went to hug both of them, arms slung over both of their shoulders briefly. It was always awkward; both of them were about four inches shorter than he was, and slim. He sometimes felt like if he showed them physical affection he’d accidentally crush them, or they would accidentally eviscerate him with their sharp bony edges.
“You guys didn’t have to come” was the first thing he could think of to say.
“We’re glad we did,” Dad said. “That was quite a goal, Michael.”
“Uhh...thanks... I mean, I don’t usually manage stuff like that, but it was cool you could see it.”
“Do you have to chew on your mouthguard that way?” Mom asked. “I worry about your teeth...”
Mike thought about the fight last year when he’d knocked out Danny’s front tooth and said, “You don’t have to. I don’t get hit in the face that much anymore.”