Bender (Vegas Venom Book 4)

I do not know what is wrong with me. The more I try, the worse I seem to get. I am no rookie, but the game is different here. As a defenseman, I am expected to bring the hits, battle in the corners, but… I keep running out of room. I am not used to this narrower ice and instead of making hits, I am taking them. Badly. I will be lucky not to land in the hospital one of these days, or… wait. Maybe that would be lucky. The pain? I can take it more easily than the humiliation. Everyone knows I am dead weight. The fans and the sports reporters question me. They question Dante for bringing me here. Even though they try to cover for me, I can see it in their eyes. Dante’s most of all. As a fellow Italian, I have disappointed him and our homeland. If someone took me out during this game, I could be on injured reserve and not have to embarrass myself for at least a few weeks. Then they might put my bandaged behind on a plane and send me back to…

“Tough break, Marco,” Anders says as he joins me on the bench, interrupting my depressing stream of thoughts. “Ref made a soft call on that offside. I thought you were okay. Don’t let it get to you. Shake it off next shift.”

“Grazie,” I tell my team captain, and yet I am feeling the shame. “But it still cost us a goal. I cost us a goal.”

He gives a flick of his glove. “Don’t sweat it. Happens to the best of us.”

It never happens to you. He is trying to be nice, but I can tell by his tight-lipped response he is just as angry as Coach Brenig. I can feel the man hovering at my shoulder, his breath puffing out in angry clouds of steam in the chilled air.

We are down an abominable 5-4 in the third to Latham’s old team, the Storm, and it would not even be this close without the first-class firepower of our captain and his linemates. It certainly has nothing to do with me. I have… what do my teammates say about this?… shit the bed so hard this game I might as well be rolling with the pigs back in Italia.

If it was not for Madison, I might just return without being asked.

I squirt water on my face and in my mouth, but it does little to cleanse me of the fact that I am not talented enough for this American style of play. Bless Dante for giving me this chance but damn him to hell for setting me up to fail in front of so many. This… this is to be my legacy when I desired it to be so much more. It is like my original hope has been snatched away by the jaws of defeat. I do not belong here. I am over my head at this elite level and he knows it; the coach knows it, my teammates know it, and worst of all, the paying fans know it. Despite all that, they still love me, cutting me slack I have not yet earned.

The only one who is blind to it—or at least pretends to be—is Madison, even though she comes from a hockey family so she knows the game and how poorly I am playing it. My principessa comes to my games whenever she can or watches me on the television. But she is not in the stands tonight, which is a blessing, but if I have any reason to put up, shut up and get myself right, it is her. Not the money, not the fans or the fame; just a future—any kind of future—with Madison.

The clock ticks down the seconds until there are just about three minutes left in the game. I focus on the frantic play of our team in front of the Storm net, praying for the puck to go in, but instead, it is chipped out of play and the whistle is blown. Merda. At least this means we will get a face-off in their zone, but it also means that Coach will likely pull Noah out of his net for the extra attacker. Despite it being something that American coaches like to do, that almost never works. I looked it up. Over the past three seasons, the success rate of scoring with the goalie pulled is only about fifteen percent. But teams try it anyway; I am simply glad it will not be me out there against such shitty odds. Not long after I came to America and joined this team, I found that when the game is on the line, I ride the bench.

Those words to myself are still hanging above me like a cartoon thought bubble when Brenig taps me on the helmet and leans in. “Beats me why, but Dante’s got some kind of faith in you, Rossi. Here’s your chance to show him. And me.” He gives my shoulder a shove, and I jump to my feet. “Don’t fuck it up.”

Fotta!

My stomach plummets to my skates as soon as I see Noah skating toward the bench, and my heart rate shoots toward the sky. What is Coach thinking putting me on the ice during a 6 on 5 in the final minutes? Is he actively trying to expose my mediocrity? Looking for an excuse to kick me off the team? All that crap about Dante believing in me is just that… crap. I know in my soul that Dante is doing this so he can release me outright and put me on the next plane back home.

And when that happens, I lose my talent visa.

And I lose Madison.

My chest is so tight I can barely draw the breath I need to leap over the sill and hit the ice. One goal, that is all; one goal and we can tie this game, force it to overtime. Hockey should not be this hard; should not have to come down to this, but here we are, and here I am. There is nowhere to hide, no way to cloak my sins under the unforgiving lights of the rink and the burning eyes of hundreds of thousands of viewers all wanting me to succeed probably more than I do myself.

Summoning every ounce of belief I have, I take my place behind Latham and Cash in the faceoff circle. It seems to take forever for the ref to drop the puck, Anders and the Storm center visibly tensing and jockeying for position. He chases Anders out and Latham takes his place. Not good. You need your best centers to take the draw in a situation like this.

Finally, the puck is dropped, and we get possession. Latham kicks it backward with the heel of his stick and Anders picks it up. We fan out, and he sends it back to my partner, Oliver Sutcliffe, a quiet man who has been very hard to get to know. Because of that, we lack chemistry as a defensive team. I get ready for what I feel is coming. Focus, Rossi. You can do this. Sure enough, he zips it across to me, and I consider taking a shot but do not have a great lane. I do not dare take the chance of giving up the puck to them if it gets blocked or tipped. Best to keep it cycling, so I look for one of our forwards to get open.

Anders moves into the low slot, so I pass it to him. He takes it and makes a cross-pass to Latham on the other side. He fires on the net, but the puck is blocked and bounces back to my partner again. Oliver skates toward me. We have practiced this play; I take the puck from him as we crisscross and switch sides. In this moment, I feel confident enough. Perhaps muscle memory will take over. Perhaps I can do this.

The opposing team shuffles around, trying to maintain coverage, which is exactly what we want, to get them moving and create confusion. I am able to put it down low where my unlikely friend and mentor, Cash, has taken up a position just outside the crease as if he knows how much I need him. His laser gaze finds mine. With his formidable shooting skills, he draws defenders to him like a magnet, and it works. No one is paying attention to our other two forwards, and he gets it to one of them with a quick pass behind the net.

Anders picks it up and tries to tuck it home around the far post but their goalie denies him, kicking it off his pad and into the tangled fray of players madly trying to jam it into the net. The puck ricochets around but eventually comes loose, and an opponent manages to get a stick on it.

Hampered by all the bodies, he swats it free of the crowd, but not very far. It slides weakly into a patch of open ice, just enough for his defender to take possession. I move toward him to get in his way, knowing he will try to fire it into our open net.

I am within inches of the man when, instead of shooting for the net, he fires it sideways and bounces it off the boards on my side. Santa Maria, my instincts were wrong again, and now I am completely out of position. I spin and skate as fast as I can toward the bouncing puck, but his teammate is already there and carrying it across the neutral zone on a breakaway.

This is it. If I can catch him and keep that puck out of our net, I might have a chance at redemption in my team’s, and my coach’s, eyes. It will not matter to me if I have to trip him, hook him, or tackle him; two minutes in the box will be a small price to pay, plus it will get me off the ice and out of sight for the rest of the game. We will lose the man advantage but it is two minutes of grace for our team to tie it up, even if we are shorthanded.

Using my skating skills to my advantage, I chase my opponent down with every ounce of skating strength I have ever had in me. Everyone else is too far behind to help. Just like my entire life, I am all alone. The two of us are halfway into our zone by the time I close the distance between him and me. I stretch out, nearly horizontal over the ice as I try to reach around him with my stick.

Without warning, my skate blade loses an edge, sending my leg out sideways. In a split second, I am flat on my belly, my face wiping the ice like a Zamboni. Merdi, I have face-planted! Of my own stupid accord, I have fallen down like a bumbling child. No trip, no equipment malfunction; just my own clumsiness to blame as I see the puck slide nonchalantly into our net.

I let myself slide into the net after it, too defeated and too humiliated to bother trying to stop. The goal horn blares, and I feel it in the depths of my soul, and above me, the flashing red light illuminates my shame in taunting, crimson glory. This has got to be the absolute worst moment of my life. It sounds and feels like the bitter end of my career.

I had hope.

I tried.

I failed.

Finito.

Summoning my last shreds of dignity, I get up and skate toward the bench to face certain doom. No one acknowledges me with even the smallest word of encouragement as they normally would do. Even Cash Denaro glances away. A few seconds remain on the clock, but for me, the game is over, and possibly my time in the NHL too. Without making eye contact with anyone, I head straight down the tunnel to the dressing room.

* * *

I have played poorly during games, but it has never been this bad before. I am not sure that my performance is specifically worse, but at least when we win, my teammates are happy. This time feels worse because we all feel bad. Nobody will say so, but it is most definitely my fault. Part of me wishes that one of them would blame me out loud. Instead, they have rallied and are being nice to me, which only makes things worse.

“We’re still in line to make the finals,” Anders says in the shower. “One bad game isn’t enough to sink us. We’ll win the division again as predicted and then it’s smooth sailing from there. Mark my words. This is just one tiny setback.”

My friends nod in agreement, but I just stand under the steaming jets, staring at the suds as they circle the drain. This is not just a bad game. Every game is bad for me, and now it has cost my team a victory. If this happens again, it will not be a bad game for us. It will be a bad season.

Anxiety builds in my throat, closing it off. I just want to see Madison. Being with her makes everything better.

Without even glancing at Anders, I turn off the water and make straight for the lockers. I have not said a word since we left the ice.

“Yo, Marco.” Latham hustles after me. “You okay, buddy?”

I swallow hard and nod. “I am very tired.”

Noah pops up on my other side. I did not even hear him coming. “Don’t beat yourself up. We all know how hard you practice. No one works harder than you do, so it’s not like you’re slacking off or anything. Everybody has an off-game now and then.”

Except for me, it is always now.

I know that he means this as reassurance, but it feels like the opposite. If anything, it is worse. If I was being lazy, I could do what they always do in American sports movies and train, train, train to make myself better. Get my head in the game. But my head is already in the game, and I do not know what more I can do.

I am giving the Vegas Venom the very best of me, and it is not enough.

“Hey.” Noah nudges me gently with his elbow. “Latham’s right. This is just a speed bump. You’ve gotten a lot better since you moved here, you know? And despite what Anders says, it’s not like we can win the cup every year. We’re a team, right?”

I sneak a glance at Cash, who is sitting on the bench behind me. As the oldest of us, I do not know how many more seasons he will have before he has to retire. The rest of us might have time for our careers to trend upward, but he does not. And as much as he denies it, he is my friend. I want to do right by him. Letting him down feels worst of all.

Instead of smacking his fist into his palm and threatening me, however, he lifts one side of his mouth into a little smile.

“You tried, Rossi,” he says. “You are never low on effort. In my book, that counts more than anything else.”

I turn my face into my locker and take a deep breath. All my friends are treating me like I am breakable. They should be mad, but instead, they are trying to make me feel better, even though I am the disappointment. I do not deserve them.

Even Oliver looks at me like I am a fragile piece of glass as he tugs on his glasses. “You gonna be okay?”

I nod as I pull my street clothes on, trying not to make eye contact with anyone as I get dressed. If I do, I will start bawling like the giant bearded baby I became in the Snapchat picture Madison took of us.

When I am dressed, I slam my locker door shut and scoop up my bag. “I am sorry,” I say, even though nobody has said a single unkind thing.

Cash grunts. “Take your keys.”

I pause by the door of the locker room. “Is this another American saying? What does this mean?” Perhaps something like, Do not let this problem stop you. Do not lose your drive to win. Americans are always coming up with silly phrases, and I do not have the energy to translate them tonight.

But I am wrong this time. Cash scoops up my very real keys and tosses them to me. I catch them just in time.

“Ah, si, grazie.” I drop my keys into my pocket and wave farewell to my friends before stepping backward out of the locker room.

After a good game, the puck bunnies gather by the player entrance to cheer our names. Today, they gather anyway, looking as defeated as my teammates feel. A few of them try to talk to me, but I keep my head down as I slip through the crowd. The Venom superfans do not make eye contact. They do not snap photos. They do not film the TikityToks. They do not try that hard to stop me.

I am no longer important. I have fallen easily back into the nothingness I came from.

Even our die-hard fans know that I am a disappointment.

I am glad the people sleeping underneath the stones are not here to see this.

* * *

I do not call Madison before I get to her place. I do not text. I have no idea what to say, and I am not sure how she would receive a message that just says, I need you, even though it would be the truth.

When I knock on her door, Madison answers, wearing a flowing black top, soft pink sleep shorts, and a huge smile.

“Hey, Marco! I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight. I thought you’d be out with the guys drowning your sorrows in bad pizza and beer.” Her smile fades as she registers my expression. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”

I shake my head. “May I come in? Or is now not so good?”

Madison takes my hand and tugs me through the door. “Now is perfect.”

She leads me to her couch, and I drop down in a useless heap. She can tell that something is wrong, but instead of asking me what happened, she sits down next to me and takes one of my hands in both of hers. “What do you need? How can I best support you right now?”

You, I think again. This woman is perfect. Nobody has ever spoken to me like this before. At school they would tell me, Toughen up. Every coach I have ever had would say, Be a man. Even my friends would joke and tease, or pretend that nothing is wrong, even though I feel terrible. But Madison, she asks me what I need. Whenever her gaze lands on me, my principessa’s eyes are warm and filled with an understanding that settles my nerves. Her touch on my leg soothes me, grounding me like nothing else can. She wants to offer me her feminine comfort.

And suddenly, I have everything. Despite what I have already lost—what I have yet to lose—I am content.

“The Proposal. Can we finish it? Only Netflix, none of the chill. I… I am not feeling so hot. I feel I cost my team the game tonight. Could I be the big cucchiaio and we not speak? Is this allowed?”

She reaches for the remote without hesitation and places it in my hand. “Get Netflix set up. I’ll be right back.” Madison hops to her feet and hurries to the kitchen. I start clicking buttons as she rattles around. A moment later, she hurries back to her room to retrieve a very large, very soft blanket. Then she is back to the kitchen, only to return with two mugs.

“I made tea,” she explains, placing the mugs on the side table. “You don’t have to drink it, but mint tea always helps me unwind. Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich?”

I shake my head.

Madison settles in next to me and rests her head on my shoulder. We pick up where we left off with Ryan Rinaldo as we sip our tea. When our mugs are empty, we melt together onto the sofa. I do not pay much attention to the movie. It is better to focus on how soft Madison is against me. I do not understand the problem some people have with fatness. There is something very comforting about being with her. I think I would feel the same way if she was different, too, so long as she was Madison. She is so beautiful and so kind. Just her presence soothes and comforts me like no other. She is so perfect for me.

By the time the movie ends, I am lying on my back with my head on the armrest. Madison’s head rests on my chest, her hips between my knees. This couch is very small for the two of us, but I like it. The smallness is a good excuse to be close. Madison reaches for the remote and puts another show on. It is a series of short films about aliens called Love, Death + Robots. It is interesting, and I think Cash would like it, but I am not in the space for thinking. I listen to the sound of Madison’s breathing, how it turns slow and steady as she drifts off to sleep.

This woman is becoming my soft place to fall.

She is starting to feel like home.

I feel like I might die if I lose her.