Taylor Fitzpatrick - Thrown Off the Ice

For my brother, who has a long history of concussions he suffered his fourth while I was writing this, and unfortunately became a firsthand source about PCS while experiencing the symptoms himself during a long recovery and who insisted on funding me in the Kickstarter despite the fact I told him, unequivocally, that he would not be allowed to read it. Miles, if you are reading this, turn back now. For both of our sakes. Other family members: that applies to you too.

And for Alison, who has been incredibly supportive throughout the process of both of my novels. You have the patience of a saint for dealing with me and my occasional (okay, frequent) late night hockey rants and writing crises, and an amazing tolerance for receiving tiny snippets of out of context writing whenever I need validation or a second opinion. I dont tell you nearly often enough how much I appreciate you.

Thank you to my beta readers: Siri Helleloid, Bee Kunesh, Romina Nemaei, Shelby Page, and Sarah Yakimets. Im sorry about all the commas.

And a tremendous debt of gratitude to my Kickstarter supporters: Alyssa, Antoinette, D, Roxanne, L Turner, Lesa Sorge, J, Hazel Parker, Chris, J Markham, Jake Archer, Jasmine Moore, SH, Winds-wanderer, asimplecord, nowfailingoutofschool, headbutt-mutt, arbitrarysix, ilovetextingandscones, greenleaves-never, goldenandbroken, oriolegirl, breidaiai, AlcatrazOutpatient, matchawhispers, jmcbks, Jammysandwich, lololuho, fallen-wave-of-celestial-intent, and everyone else who helped make this possible. Thanks so much for your support, and for your patience during what has been a considerably longer process than I anticipated.

TAKING IT APART (2016)

Chapter 1

Lets be clear: Mike knows from the get-go that its a stupid fucking idea. He just doesnt know if that makes it better or worse.

The kid gets called up to the Oilers when Steinberg breaks his foot halfway through the season. And he is a kid: eighteen, baby-faced, smaller than everyone else on the roster at 58 and clearly determined to make up for it. He introduces himself to Mike before his first game with a outstretched hand and a shit-eating grin, radiating that specific kind of confidence that teenage boys the world over seem to have: cockiness overlaying self-consciousness.

Im Liam, the kid Fitzgerald says, either not realizing or not caring that hes interrupting Mikes pregame routine.

I know, Mike says.

Youre Mike, Fitzgerald says, providing himself the introduction Mike didnt. We might play on a line together, so I thought Id introduce myself. So. Hi.

We probably wont, Mike says. Theyll slot you in where Steinberg was. Youre way too fucking tiny for the checking line.

Im not tiny, Fitzgerald says, sounding offended. Im concentrated.

That what theyre calling it now? Mike asks. The kids practically getting a crick in his neck trying to meet Mikes eye.

Yep, Fitzgerald says. Youll see.

*

They put Fitzgerald exactly where Mike said they would, but on an icing call he ends up playing a shift with the goon squad. He wins the face off, shakes off a hit that should have put a guy his size right on his ass, throws a hit of his own on a player almost the size of Mike. Nearly bounces off him, but the intent was there.

Fitzgeralds breathless on the bench after that shift, cocky grin wiped off his face, hair plastered to his forehead under his helmet. Clearly struggling a little, but he made his point.

Concentrated, Fitzgerald repeats.

Yeah, youre still not goon squad material, Mike says.

Fitzgerald frowns at him.

Thats a fucking compliment, kid, Mike says.

I could be goon squad material, Fitzgerald argues.

Typical rookie: of course he wants to be good at everything from the get-go. What Fitzgeralds got is the kind of potential you dont see in the guys mired on the fourth line, the kind of potential Mikes never had in his life. What Mike does have is eight extra inches, a shit-ton more weight, the ability to throw that weight around. To throw a punch, to take one. Its not the kind of thing to aspire to. No one grows up dreaming of being an enforcer.

Mike cant help but grin at him, this pint-sized destroyer. Mike knows he was that young, once, but he doesnt think he was ever that young . Okay, kid, Mike says, placating him, and unexpectedly, Fitzgerald grins right back.

Mike thinks, in hindsight, that might be where the trouble starts.

*

With the team as injured as it is, especially the centers, it looks like Fitzgeralds going to be playing for the Oilers for awhile. He may be a rookie, but hes got a gift for face-offs that even most vets dont have: Fitzgeralds a true natural center, which requires as much instinct as practice. If he keeps playing like he has, he just might take someones job out from under them, some poor fucker getting shuffled straight from injured reserve to healthy scratch. Steinberg may as well take his sweet time healing.

The coaching staff appears to share Mikes opinion, because rather than staying in the call up limbo of a hotel room, Fitzgeralds quickly installed with Darryl Rogers, alternate captain and designated child minder, apparently. The role suits him Rogers is younger than Mike, but hes got that fatherly vibe down pat already. Mike has no doubt that once he gets married to his fiance there are going to be plenty of Rogers spawn in the world, so maybe the two of them are getting started early on the whole parenting thing.

Edmonton has no shortage of young guys on the team right now when youve got a ton of injuries on a team thats shit even when theyre healthy, there isnt much harm in giving your rookies a proper audition. Mike would like to make that clear: Fitzgeralds got other teenagers he could hang out with. Hell, guys under twenty-five make up most of the roster. Mike, at thirty, is practically an elder statesman.

And yet on their first road trip, Fitzgerald sits his ass down in the seat beside Mikes on the flight out. Mike usually gets two seats all to himself. He takes up a lot of space, even considering the larger seats the charter offers, and hed rather read a book or a magazine than join the cards or video games or general time wasting hed inevitably get roped into if he was sitting beside someone else.

Mike eyes him. Theres no shortage of seats, so its not like Fitzgerald doesnt have other options. Maybe he lost a bet with one of the other rookies: go sit with the grumpy enforcer, hope he doesnt eat you.

Can I help you? Mike asks when Fitzgerald doesnt immediately explain his presence.

Im good, Fitzgerald says, shooting Mike a cheerful smile. He puts headphones on a few minutes later, falls asleep within ten. He isnt the pain in the ass Mike expected he would be, dozing beside Mike, so Mike has no excuse for getting distracted every other page, looking over to find Fitzgerald still asleep, his mouth slightly ajar and fingers loosely interlaced, a picture of peaceful repose.

Fogart approaches halfway to Dallas with a marker in hand. Unless youre coaching staff or known to retaliate bigger and better, its never safe to fall asleep on the road. Fitzgerald should know better Mikes sure hes been involved in even dumber shit recently, considering he was called up from a team entirely comprised of teenage boys. Not that Juniors is a far cry from the NHL sometimes plenty of guys havent grown out of that juvenile bullshit. Fogart, for example.

Dont you fucking dare, Mike says. He looks back down at his book, idly flips to the next page, and when he looks back up, Fogarts retreated.

Fitzgerald continues to sleep, unmolested, and Mike watches him, reconsidering: if he realized the seat beside Mike was the only safe place to take a nap, hes smarter than Mike gave him credit for.

Fitzgerald sleeps until they start to descend, and Mike doesnt seem to take in a damn word of his book in that time.