Delayed Penalty (Crossing the Line, #1)
Shey Stahl
Checking from behind – The act of hitting an opponent from the back when they are unaware the hit is coming resulting in a penalty.
Game 36 – Detroit Red Wings
December 23, 2009
Dean Matzy, left-winger for the Detroit Red Wings, stopped. His skates grated against the ice at the blue line, sizing me up. With a nod, one that told me what he wanted, he circled around once more.
It was a dance that I knew well.
Matzy was a bull-shouldered man with a scarred face and crooked nose. He'd seen better days, but so had most hockey players in the National Hockey League.
"See something you like?" I offered up as a wisecrack.
He pushed against my shoulder, crouching down into position. His stick nudged my ribs, letting me know he was still game for what I wanted. "Watch it, Mase."
The linesman beside us smiled. "Watch out now, Matzy. Masen can be your worst f*cking nightmare if ya let 'em."
I raised my eyebrows at Brad, the linesman, and he smiled again, knowing we were about to drop gloves. With cheap shots, slashing, and heavy chirping, we'd been at it most of the night.
There were a lot of reasons why players fought during a hockey game. This—Matzy and me—we did this any time we got together.
We were down by two, and sometimes you used a fight to rally your team. It wasn't personal. At least tonight it wasn't personal.
"Aren't you gonna ask me to dance?" I asked, trying to get him going. My job, as a defenseman, was to prevent forwards from making a goal and tie them up during a faceoff. Playing my role well, that was what I was doing. Judging by my time spent in the penalty box tonight, I'd say I was on my game.
"We'll dance all right..." Matzy nudged me again, but my eyes weren't on him. I watched the puck in the linesman's hand trying to anticipate the drop. "...'til you're f*ckin' bleeding."
Leo and the Red Wings center squared up.
"Sounds like fun," I told him. "Let's go. C'mon, let's go." I butted my stick in his ribs.
When the puck dropped between the two centers, Leo got possession, and I dropped my gloves, at the same time as Matzy. I could hear the crowd come to life, roaring in excitement, passionately rooting their team on. They loved a good fight.
We circled for a moment, both of us finding steady footing before I took the first swing. The linesman watched, making sure nothing illegal was done as our teammates gave us room.
My first swing landed on his shoulder. He pivoted and connected with my jaw before I pounded three more good punches against his.
I wasn't afraid to bleed, and I was a good fighter. You had to be in hockey, but matched up against Matzy was sure to be a challenge of sorts.
Though it'd been a few years, this wasn't the first time Matzy and I sparred.
Before we had a chance to do damage, Matzy lost his footing and crashed to the ice. The linesmen broke it up after that.
Escorted to the box, our teammates beat their sticks against the boards, prompting uproar from the twenty thousand fans already on their feet as Dropkick Murphys blared through the arena.
Leo caught me, skates grating against the ice as he stopped before me, full of excitement, banging his helmet against mine. "You look f*cking great, man!" Leo always exaggerated. "Don't stop roughin' 'em up. That's what you do, Mase, don't forget it!"
I smiled around my mouth guard clamped between my teeth as blood dripped from my lip. Leo handed me my gloves as the door to the penalty box opened.
The linesman to my left waved Leo away. "That's enough."
I spent fifteen minutes in the penalty box, five for fighting, five for a major, and five for instigating, since I threw the first punch, while Matzy got five for fighting. We chirped back and forth in the box, just for pure intimidation purposes and entertainment for the fans who continued to beat on the glass surrounding the penalty box. It was my third trip to the box tonight, so I sat back and watched after a while.
That fifteen minute penalty was nothing compared to my record of forty-five minutes just off one play a few weeks ago. PJ Moore, a defenseman with the Boston Bruins, and I had a shady past ever since the junior leagues. He wanted to go and I just wasn't feeling it so, instead, he took a cheap shot at Leo Orting, our center, as he was climbing the bench after our shift, nailing the back of his legs with his stick.
He skated away, retreating to the bench, like he could just get away with it.
He thought wrong.
I may not have wanted to fight him, but I wasn't about to let him get away with a dirty hit like that, on Leo of all guys. I chased him, jumping the bench with a swift spearing motion, dropped my gloves, and fought him and two of his teammates. I believe their team trainer even got some shots. I received five minutes for spearing, five minutes for fighting, five minutes for a second fight, ten minutes for intent to injure, ten minutes for unsportsmanlike conduct, and ten minutes for major misconduct. I was camped out in the box the whole f*cking game, but I didn't regret it. He never took a cheap shot like that again.
A lot of things happened in the penalty box. Lots of boobs—couldn't complain there—lots of popcorn thrown and beer offered, and tons of shit talking.
My time in the box was predictable. Spitting out blood, I had my own commentary to yell at the boys as they pushed the puck around. A selection of words, mostly inappropriate to the children sitting behind me, but the way I saw it—if their parents brought them to a hockey game—they needed the full experience, and that included my choice phrases.