“C’mon,” I say to Number 19, who put the late cross-check on Gord, our center. I say, “C’mon.” I skate over while Coach screams, and then my gloves are on the ice, and I’m begging Number 19 to throw down, too. The linesman has my shoulder, pulling me away, but I stay put. “C’mon,” I say. “C’mon, pussy. Throw down. Please throw down.”
After the game, me and Gord duck out past curfew to the Belleville Pub, and I drink eight beers to Gord’s five, ten to his six, twelve to his eight. Two puck bunnies sit with us, and Gord talks to the prettier one. The one who should be mine is watching him instead while he tells them how he’s chasing the record for single-season points. I want to tell my girl that she’s cute, but my tongue feels sore and swollen in my head, and I wonder when I bit it and didn’t notice.
