I’m just about to grab some water when I spot DeMarco. He has his usual smarmy smirk on his face and he’s standing by the boards, laughing with a couple of his teammates. They appear to be eyeing Vik, who’s down in one of his splits, legs apart, face almost touching the ice.
“Ladies like it when you do that, Maslak?” DeMarco calls out. “Or you prefer guys?”
Vik, to his credit, ignores him.
“What’s the matter, Rusky? Your Commie friends got your tongue?”
The league has strict rules about racial slurs—slurs of any kind really—but there are no refs, no coaches, no one to report it to.
And that cock sucker knows it, which is why he’s running his mouth.
However, I do have an ace in the hole. One of our equipment managers is out by the bench, getting ready for the game, and I skate over to him.
“Hey, Seth,” I say quietly. “Do me a favor.”
“Sure, Cap. What do you need?”
I lean forward and make sure my voice is as low as possible. “DeMarco is out there talking shit. You have your phone?”
He nods.
“Start taking video. Even if it turns out to be nothing, I want to make sure we have proof that he’s the one starting any nonsense.”
“Absolutely.” He starts to whistle as he pulls out his phone, pretends to be typing a message to someone and then sets it on the bench as he goes back to what he was doing.
DeMarco is still standing by the boards, holding court with a handful of teammates. I can’t tell if they’re genuinely amused by hisantics or just tolerating him to keep the peace, but I don’t give a shit. However, I’m not going to stray too far from Vik.
“Hey, Mazzie—” That’s one of Vik’s nicknames, although guys from other teams don’t usually use it unless they’re friends. “—you like girls or boys?”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
“Hey, DeMarco,” I hear Ashton Knight call out. “Why’re you so worried about what other people do in the bedroom? Is it ’cause yours is dead?”
“Oh, that’s rich, coming from a nepo baby.”
Ashton’s much-older brother, Remington Knight, owns another NHL team in the league, the Lauderdale Knights. He’s a retired player who made millions of dollars in tech and now runs a championship team. Ashton is just out of college, this is his rookie season, and though most people don’t go out of their way to talk about his connection to his brother, of course, DeMarco does.
Ashton just shakes his head and skates away but DeMarco calls after him. “What—you can dish it out but you can’t take it?”
“Perhaps it isyouwho cannot take it.” Vik stands up and focuses on DeMarco.
“Oh, bring it, Rusky.” DeMarco makes a come at me motion with his hands.
“Not today, boys.” I try to keep my voice light, positioning myself between Vik and DeMarco. Vik skates up next to me, his eyes laser-focused on DeMarco’s face.
“You have big mouth,” Vik says to him.
“And you have a small dick.”
Vik laughs. “You wish to know?”
“Fuck you.”
One of DeMarco’s teammates comes over and nudges him back. “Come on, focus on the game. Forget about them.”
The two of them skate off, and I glance at Vik.
“Your English is getting better,” is all I say.