Today's Reading
She notices his stick first. He has it thrust in front of him for balance so he can lower his shoulder and drive his hip into her outer leg just above her knee. About as cheap as a cheap shot can get. Devyn wishes he wouldn't. But OK, Butchie, she thinks. Have it your way.
He catches up just as she stops on a heartbeat, draws the puck back between her skates, then jabs her stick blade through Butch's knees, using his momentum to catapult him into the boards like a rag doll. It's hard not to laugh. Butch springs to his feet and starts after her, fuming, 'You fucking tripped me, bitch.'
'Bitch is an upgrade from girlie,' Devyn says, turning to face him. 'Thanks, Butchie.'
'Fuck you.'
Every hockey rink in the world has a Butch, and everybody knows Butch Dulaney is an asshole on the ice, a wait-till-you're-not-looking shithead kicked out of half a dozen Detroit leagues before he moved 318 miles north, back to his family's 500 acres near Bitterfrost. He and his brothers Junior and DonDon own the busiest scrapyard north of Michigan's thumb and nearly all the land south of the Jako River that runs through the middle of town to Lake Michigan.
For years the Paynes and the Dulaneys have been sniping at each other over things trivial and, on occasion, important. Devyn, personally, doesn't give a damn, at least not until Butch pulls something like he is now. She backpedals as he lunges and misses, the other guys trying to wedge themselves between them.
'I'll kill you, bitch,' Butch says.
Devyn chirps back something about his dinky dick, something she'll regret later but that translates well to Butch and the other sweaty males crowding around, pretending to fend for her when, really, they wouldn't mind if Butch got one nice whack in, wouldn't mind if Devyn chose to play in someone else's rental. They half-heartedly snatch at Butch as he flings his gloves off and grabs her jersey collar and twists it with both hands, lifting her off the ice and pinning her against the glass.
Butch keeps repeating his vow to kill her and she yaps back, 'You're a sissy, Butch, and you know it.' Not quite the sort of verbal joust that Devyn Payne, Esquire, deploys before Bitterfrost judges and juries. But boys hate it when girls call them sissies. She grabs Butch's jersey and tugs herself in tight, where she's too close for him to throw a haymaker. She stands atop his skates, grinding her blades on his laces as she smells the sickly-sweet tang of tobacco dip on his breath.
Right where she wants him.
'That's enough, Butch,' comes a voice from behind her. She screws her head around to see Jimmy Baker skating over in his black-and-white referee get-up. Jimmy's six-four, two-thirty-five, just ten pounds over his minor-league playing weight, usually enough to dissuade dickheads. Though not Butch, who says, 'Eat shit, Bakes.'
'Get out of here, Jimmy,' Devyn says. 'I got this.'
Jimmy snags them both by the collars and with one grunting heave pulls them apart. That's enough of an opening for Butch to throw a sucker punch that grazes Devyn's chin, snapping her head back. 'Damn,' she says, struggling to keep her blades on Butch's skates.
Jimmy grabs Butch by the throat and slams his helmeted head into the glass. Butch is struggling to breathe, but manages a choked-off gasp, 'Go ahead, Jimmy. Gonna put me in a wheelchair too?'
Jimmy lets go.
'Come on, Bakes,' someone says. Now it's Jimmy they're pulling away. They mean well. They know him and, like most Bitterfrosters, they like him well enough. They also know what he's capable of. Butch can throw down with just about anybody, but Jimmy's bigger, punches lefty, and, most important, knows exactly what he's doing.
'Let's go, bud,' Devyn says, clutching Jimmy's elbow. 'Come on, get out of here.'
He glances around the circle of skaters and backs away one step. 'Don't be pulling this shit again, Butch.'
Butch, unfazed, lurches at Jimmy and falls flat on his face. He struggles to his feet and immediately collapses again. Poor Butchie, Devyn thinks, grinning.
'What the hell?' Butch says as he struggles up again and peers down at his skates. The laces are sliced down the middle. The other players start laughing. Butch says, 'You got one coming, girl.'
'Noted,' Devyn says, and skates away, hearing the guys taunting Butch as she catches up with Jimmy retreating to the bench.
'Jimmy,' she says. 'I don't need you coming to my rescue.'
'I know.'
'You know I love you, but I don't need your help. Not out here. OK?'
He's looking across the ice toward Butch. She can tell Jimmy doesn't entirely believe what she just said. Which she understands. Had Butch tagged her clean, she might be on her way to the hospital.
...
