After the fourth unanswered goal, the head coach pulled Beaves with seven minutes left in the first period.The backup goalie, his mask white and unpainted, skated past to the crease and dropped to the ice for a quick stretch.
“Your backup any good?” asked the Creston bus driver.
I shrugged.“He’s a rookie, so I don’t know.”
It didn’t take long to find out.Less than a minute later, the same winger who scored the opening goal took a long pass and had a breakaway.Instead of deking, the winger teed it up in the slot and blasted a slapshot right past the goalie and into the top half of the net.
“Holy Smokes!” said the bus driver, standing up and clapping.He looked back at me.“Did you see that?”
“Hell of a slapper,” I admitted.
“He’ll definitely go in the first round with a shot like that.”
I nodded my head.The bus driver sat back down.Just as he was leaning back in his chair, Mullet-man yelled, “Creston sucks!”
The bus driver’s body tensed, so I knew he’d heard it.But he didn’t turn around or look back, only stared ahead at the game as the puck was dropped again.
“Creston sucks!” Mullet-man yelled again.
I looked around for a section leader, who was supposed to be on hand to take care of loudmouths like this one.I spotted her two sections over, a teenage girl flirting with another section leader who might have been a year or two older.The two were oblivious to the game and the crowd.
“Creston sucks!”
The bus driver’s shoulders sagged slightly.
My jaw clenched.I fixed my gaze on Mullet-man.His face bore the broad smile of self-importance that all jerks carry.Anger sparked down in the pit of my stomach and brewed into rage.
Mullet-man noticed me and gave me a hard stare.“What are you looking at?”
I shrugged.“Some guy showing off for his boyfriends.”
Mullet-man’s face dropped in surprise and then anger.There were a few scattered “oohs” to add to his embarrassment.
“What did you say to me?”
“You heard me fine.”
“I’ll kick your ass!” he yelled.
I gave him another shrug.“Saying ain’t doing.”
His cronies made a half-hearted effort to restrain him as he crawled over one row of seats and clambered toward me.If the section leader had been watching, security would have been on him in about three seconds.Of course, she was still two sections over, giggling with some pimply sixteen-year-old kid.
Mullet-man brushed past an old couple and hopped another row of seats.He was athletic but not skilled, clearing the seats easily but landing heavily on his feet.
“Don’t worry about it, eh?” the bus driver said from my right.“Like I said, every rink has a few.”
“Too late for that,” I muttered as I watched Mullet-man advance.
I remained in my seat as long as I could so that all the witnesses would see that it was him coming after me and not the other way around.As he reached the row directly behind me, there were a half-dozen empty seats and he picked up speed, already cocking his right arm.I waited until he reached the back of my seat and started to throw his punch before I moved.
Pushing forward with my good leg, the right, I moved to my left and brought up both hands.Mullet-man’s fist whizzed by my ear.I turned, reached out and grabbed his wrist and forearm, pulling him over the row of seats and into my row.He landed awkwardly and his ribs smashed into the back of the bus driver’s seat.
Mullet-man grunted. I thought for a second he might be through, but he snarled a curse at me and stood up.I didn’t wait for him to get his balance, but stepped forward and whipped two quick rights into his face.The first landed flush on the tip of his nose and snapped his head back.The second caught him full in the mouth as his head was coming forward again.The warmth of battle flooded my body.
He gave another grunt after the second punch, but didn’t quit.Instead, he grabbed onto my shoulders and pulled me into a clinch.I pulled back, but he leaned into me.I tried to brace myself against him, but he twisted to his right and I had to plant my left leg to remain standing.
My left knee is pretty much worthless,so we both crumpled to the ground.Pain shot through my leg.
I heard his rattling breath and felt a mist of hot wetness on my cheek.His nose was bleeding.I tried to roll left, then right, but the rows of seats were too close together.I brought my right knee up sharply, aiming for his groin, but it landed somewhere on his upper leg.
Mullet-man’s grunting became a continuous drone as he clutched me, trying to win the fight by simply holding me in place.I worked my right arm up between our faces and slid it down to the side of his throat.Once I thought I had his carotid artery pegged, I pressed hard with the knife edge of my hand.
“Fuck you,” he wheezed at me and let go with his right hand.I tucked my left elbow in tight to my body, knowing what was coming.
The punch landed up high on my arm. I exhaled sharply.He was strong and had gravity on his side.My left arm and shoulder screamed at me in shock and pain, but I kept it in place.I increased pressure on the side of his throat, hoping the technique would work. On patrol, years ago and a lifetime away, I once put a burglar out using only one side of his throat, but that guy had a skinny throat.Mullet-man’s throat was thick and he was more muscular than I thought.
His second punch hurt more than the first, landing in almost the same spot.I held in a yelp and drove my knee upward again.All that succeeded in doing was striking his buttock and sliding him upward.My face ended up buried in his chest and the force of my carotid technique slipped.
Mullet-man delivered a third punch and this one crunched into my shoulder.I tried to roll again, but he had me pinned.I could smell old popcorn and the sticky sweet odor of soda.In another punch, maybe two, he would pound my head into the concrete floor.
I relaxed the knife edge of my hand and curled my fingers around his throat.With my thumb, I dug into the front of his neck.If I couldn’t cut off the blood and put him out peacefully, then I’d have to go for wind.
His breath caught for a moment when my thumb found his windpipe, but he recovered quickly and drove another punch into my shoulder.His fist skipped off the point of my shoulder and grazed my eye.I kept my chin tucked to my chest and squeezed.
Suddenly, he disappeared, his weight lifting away from me.I looked up and saw a giant in a green polo shirt lifting him in the air and pulling him away.
Two huge hands grabbed my shoulders and yanked me upright.I held in another yelp.
“Let’s go, pal,” the voice that belonged to the hands growled in my ear.“And no more bullshit, either.”
He didn’t have to worry.I didn’t have any bullshit left.
3
We arrived at the security office together, Mullet-man and I, each with our muscle-bound escorts doing most of the work of locomotion.My guy had an easier time of it.I’m five-ten and lucky to be one-seventy.Mullet-man was somewhere in the low two hundreds.
My left arm and shoulder were throbbing. At the end of every throb was a knife-point of pain.My left knee entirely skipped the throbbing part and just went straight to the knife-pain.
The security chief waiting at the desk was much smaller than the hulks that brought in Mullet-man and I.There was something familiar about his face, but I dismissed it.I was used to that feeling.When I was a cop, I met thousands of people. Some of those meetings weren’t so pleasant. So when someone looks vaguely familiar, I’ve learned to just let it lie.
“Coupla fighters,” my escort rumbled.
The Security Chief nodded and motioned toward two plexi-glass holding cells. “Put them in there.I’ll call PD.”
My escort never broke stride, shoving me unceremoniously through the open door of one of the plexi-glass cells.I gave him a hard stare as he closed the door and slid the bolt into place, but I didn’t even rate a return glare.