Iron Cross: The Dartmouth Cobras #6 (40 page)

T
he men burst into the locker room, shouting and giving each other high fives like they’d already won the game. First two periods had leaned in the Cobras favor—the Rangers were out of sync—but Tyler wouldn’t consider this one in the bag until they’d secured the win. The score being 3-0 after the second period didn’t mean shit. He looked over at Callahan who was talking to Roger Shero, the old guy who Tyler had thought was a reporter, who Richter had introduced to them all before the game as the new head coach. Walrye being fired should have been more of a shock, but they’d all expected it. The shock was Callahan not taking the job, but Shero had insisted nothing much would change, he’d leave them in the capable hands of the leader they knew. And he hadn’t lied. He was more observant than anything behind the bench—though he had stopped Callahan from jumping up on the bench at one point after a questionable call by the refs.

Shero didn’t seem out of place anymore, and the guys were relaxed around him. Ramos, who usually didn’t do much PDA, casually wrapped his arms around Luke from behind while they trash-talked the officials. Tyler considered going over to join the discussion, but he tried not to let the way the game was called affect his play, so he didn’t want to dwell. He kinda wanted to hang out with Raif, but the man had disappeared into one of the offices after taking a call.

White was at the other side of the room, looking like he was teaching Richards how to fight. Tyler shook his head, grinning as he remembered how sore his jaw had been the last time he’d asked for a few pointers from White. He’d keep his distance this time. But Pischlar wasn’t doing anything. He’d shed most of his equipment and his shirt and was rubbing something with a crisp minty scent on his shoulders.

As Tyler approached, Pischlar held up his hands, laughing at himself. “Mind helping me out, kid? Kinda did things half-ass backward. Need to get some lotion on my new ink, and this cooling gel is hard to get off my hands.”

“Sure.” Tyler grabbed the vitamin E lotion out of Pischlar’s bag, trying not to stare as Pischlar leaned back on his arms, making all the muscles in his chest and stomach harden. The man was fucking ripped and his ink was awesome. The new tattoo was on his ribs, words in white ink, and Tyler read them even as he carefully spread the lotion over the red, swollen flesh. “‘It was fate that intertwined our destinies.’” Tyler ran his thumb under the tattoo. “I’ve heard that somewhere.”

“Not surprised. You like Transformers?” Pischlar smiled when Tyler nodded. “Bruiser’s go-to movie. I could quote half of it by heart after how often I’ve watched it at his place.”

“Oh…” Tyler put the cap back on the lotion. The meaning behind the tattoo hit him, and he glanced over at White who had Richards in a headlock. “Does he know?”

Pischlar chuckled, his tone light and low enough for only Tyler to hear. “Know what? My messed-up feeling aren’t his problem. I’m not an idiot, Vanek. He needs me to be his friend. Looking for more would be all kinds of complicated, and I don’t do complicated. The words got to me, and now they’re mine. That’s it.”

How could Pischlar be so cool with something that damn depressing? Tyler shook his head. “But you want—”

“To win this game. To go back to my room tonight and have a nice cold beer. Maybe find a pretty boy with a tight ass to play with for a little bit.” Pischlar gave Tyler a lazy smile. “I’m easy.”

“No fucking kidding.” Tyler looked at the tattoo stretching across Pischlar’s collarbone and had to fight not to reach out and touch it. Angel wings and roses surrounding a sugar skull, a fucking awesome piece of art. Pischlar had gotten it recently… Tyler was sure he hadn’t had it before Tim’s—he pressed his fist to the bench at either side of him. “What’s it mean?”

Bringing his hand to his chest, Pischlar took a deep breath. “I…well, you know I didn’t have so much ink before, right? Or the piercings?” He looked down after Tyler nodded. “I tried to fit in as a kid. My grandfather was my biggest supporter with me playing hockey when I was young, but when I came out, he said I was dead to him. My parents were cool with my choices, but I got my ass kicked at school all the time, and he used to make my mom cry telling her I deserved
to be bullied. Then he got really sick. Diabetes, his organs started failing and one of his legs was amputated up to the knee. He was such a miserable bastard, no one went to see him much. I did because…I remember him taking me out to the rink almost every day when I was little. My parents both worked full-time, so if he hadn’t…anyway, wasn’t real pleasant. He called me every name in the book.”

“This story sucks, Pisch. I mean, you’re a great guy, but—”

“Let me finish!” Pischlar punched Tyler’s shoulder. Then continued. “The day before he died he asked me why I bothered with him. I told him the truth. Nothing got to me more than never being able to make him proud. I’d never be the man he wanted me to be.” Tears wet Pischlar’s lashes. He didn’t bother wiping them away. “He told me I was right. He’d wanted me to be someone else. But I was better. And I shouldn’t give a shit about making an ignorant fuck like him proud. He’d grown up in a different world, and he still didn’t understand the one we’re living in. He said he
was
proud though. Made me promise to keep being exactly who I was, whether the world was ready for me or not.”

Tyler didn’t know what to say. He wanted to hug Pischlar and be all supportive. But he didn’t think the man needed comforting. He missed his grandfather, but those memories weren’t about his death. They were about Pischlar having done everything he’d tried to accomplish. His relationship with his grandfather had been renewed the day before he died. A pretty fucking awesome reason for a tattoo.

“Fuck, what did you say to him, Vanek?” White came over, covered with sweat from roughhousing with the rookie. And he looked ready to start a real fight as Pischlar quickly sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Easy don’t
ever
cry.”

“And you don’t either, eh, Bruiser?” Pischlar used his foot in the middle of White’s stomach to push him back a few feet. “We were talking about the Backstreet Boys’ reunion tour. Got me all emotional.”

White snorted and dropped onto the bench on the other side of Pischlar, draping an arm over his shoulders. “You’re so weird. We cool?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Pischlar asked, as if White hadn’t told him to fuck off in so many words over the last few days.

“Just making sure. Gotta keep an eye on the baby. You know him and Hunt are living together? I gotta bring the kid to McDonalds so he can have a fucking burger. He’s only allowed to have ‘all-natural.’ He told me Hunt’s got this menu his dad wrote out for him of ‘acceptable’ food.” White pulled a rubber elastic off his wrist and tied his shoulder-length brown hair at the nape of his neck, his nostrils flaring with disgust. “Our baby goalie is a fucking head case. He’s gonna ruin the kid.”

“Naw, Richards is a smart boy. And you’ll steer him straight.”

“Yeah…hey, Pisch, I wanted to ask you…” White glanced over at Tyler, shrugging as though he’d decided it was okay to talk in front of him. “How old were you when you, like, figured things out?”

Pischlar sat up, his brow furrowed. “What things?”

Red spread across the top of White’s cheeks. “Ah…that you like guys.”

“I’ve always known. Guys, girls, never really made a difference.” Pischlar shrugged White’s arm off his shoulders. “Why’d you ask?”

“Just curious. Stuff comes up a lot, you know?” White flashed a toothy grin as Callahan shouted for them to get ready to play. “Let’s finish this!”

Fuck, White was brain-dead. Pischlar had been fine talking about his grandfather, but he looked troubled as White went back to Richards. Tyler wasn’t sure what was going on, but he couldn’t worry about that when they had a game to win. He went back to his stall to put his jersey back on and let Pischlar get dressed. Then he followed the team out to the ice.

Callahan sent Tyler out with Luke and Scott to face the Rangers’ first line. Scott won the face-off and Tyler easily snagged the pass and lurched forward, speeding around the Rangers’ forwards like they were pylons. He passed the blue line, then snapped the puck to Luke, who was open, for a clean shot.

One of the Rangers’ forwards slashed at Luke’s hands so hard Luke dropped his stick. No call. The play quickly shifted and the Rangers plowed into the Cobras’ zone, their crisp passes putting them on a three-on-one against Kral, who dove to block a snap shot. The puck hit Kral in the face, but the refs didn’t stop the play even though he was slow to rise. The Rangers recovered the puck and drove hard to the net. Bower dove to block the first shot, but the rebound flew over him.

3-1. Tyler cursed as he went to the bench so Pischlar’s line could go on. He watched Pischlar set Pearce up for a smooth shot. The sound of the puck ringing off the post had the whole Cobra bench groaning. This time, the Rangers were facing Mason and Ramos. Tyler held on to the boards, not breathing until Bower snatched the puck out of the air. But then a Ranger forward slammed into him. The net came loose and the ref blew the whistle.

Bower was on his knees. He took off his helmet and bent over, his hands on his leg. The leg he’d had surgery on. Tyler stood as Bower failed to get up on his skates. Ramos shouted for the trainer.

Mason grabbed the forward who’d nailed Bower and punched him in the face. The Rangers went after Mason. Pischlar hauled one guy off Mason, Pearce grabbed another. Ramos left Bower to the trainer and muscled the last man grabbing at Mason away from him, making it an even fight. There were fists flying everywhere, but Mason lost his helmet, then his balance, and the refs separated the fighters, dragging them both to the penalty box.

Absently knocking his stick on the boards to cheer Mason for the fight, Tyler watched the trainer help Bower to the bench, then beyond. Hunt got ready to take Bower’s place, looking more prepared to kill someone than to guard the net.

Two more lines and Tyler was able to get back on. He positioned himself close to the goal as Luke and Scott swiftly passed the puck back and forth between them. An elbow caught him in the mouth and he glanced over at the ref.

No call, and he’d missed Scott’s pass. His lungs burned as he raced across the rink. He got there just in time to see Hunt drop to his knees. The puck sailed over Hunt’s shoulder. The red light went off.

3-2. Center ice face-off. Scott was thrown out, so Tyler took his place. Wasn’t fast enough. The Rangers had the puck and they were already behind Tyler, leaving him to chase them as they whipped the puck across the ice. The penalty ended and Mason came on. He checked the forward who had the puck.

Tyler recovered it and sent it across the ice, not seeing anyone open. Icing. He was winded and now they were stuck in their own zone. He rammed into the man facing him as the Rangers won the face-off against Scott. The edge of his blade skidded on a turn, and he was on his knees as the Rangers took a shot from the point.

And Hunt missed it. The young goalie hung his head as the fans roared. They were tied.

The game went by fast and Tyler barely sat before he was sent back out. Even score as the buzzer sounded. They went into overtime. Tyler was aching everywhere, he couldn’t make his legs move fast enough, and for some reason the Cobras were doing nothing but running after the Rangers. They couldn’t complete a single setup. The Rangers were all over Hunt, and Hunt swore at the ref when he was knocked on his ass and goalie interference wasn’t called. Seconds later, the Rangers took a shot right off the face-off.

It went in. And Hunt lost his mind.

He threw his stick and went after the ref. Scott latched on to the cage of Hunt’s mask and practically dragged him to the bench. Didn’t let him go until they were in the locker room.

“That was fucking bullshit!” Hunt tossed the bottle of Gatorade a trainer handed him and cracked his mask into the wall. “I’m going to—”

“Stay in here to lose your shit.” Scott blocked Hunt, but wisely didn’t get too close as Hunt tore off his equipment, tossing it every which way. “We don’t need you getting suspended.”

“I didn’t know the refs played for the Rangers! They made sure we lost!” Hunt punched the wall, then went over to the refreshment table to tip the whole thing over. “Say goodbye to the playoff, guys! We’re fucking done!”

Yep, because that’s what we need to hear.
Tyler shoved his stuff in his bag, doing his best to ignore the unstable rookie goalie. But if Bower was hurt bad, he couldn’t help but think Hunt was right. No way could that kid handle the playoff, even if they
did
make it that far.

“Fuck off, Hunt!” Luke flung his helmet toward his bag and stepped up to the goalie. “We all played hard. The Rangers were better, but we’ll be ready next time. None of us need to listen to you bitching because you couldn’t hack it out there.”

Hunt tackled Luke. Scott jumped in, catching a fist right in the eye as he wrestled Hunt away from Luke. Ramos muscled Luke to his feet and firmly made him sit at his stall.

“Not another word,
niño
.” He rose to his full height as Hunt got loose from Scott. His tone was a whiplash as he faced the younger man. “You will control yourself, Hunt. Or I will do it for you.”

Hunt was too far gone to back off. He shoved Ramos. Ramos rammed his hand into the center of Hunt’s bare chest and sent him flying.