Enforcer by Travis Hill

off. “I don’t want to know what you do for him. It’s better that way. Whatever it is, you’re important enough to him to treat you better than anyone else around here. I’m not happy that he pulls you out of games, but he pays me well, and he lets me run the team my way, lets me spend the team budget on players I want.
    “He doesn’t give a shit about hockey. I do. Gansy does. Coach Walters does. Even Griff does. We all do. Hockey is our life. It’s in our blood. It’s our legacy, being born Canadian. Just because you can’t beat a D-man down the wing doesn’t mean winning games from the bench isn’t just as important. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    “Yeah,” Connor said. “Thanks, Coach. The nightmare always messes with me for a day or two is all.”
    Lamoureux waved a hand at him. “Don’t sweat it. Just remember, at the end of the day, you’re a hockey player before anything else. Don’t forget that. Now get the hell out of here and go get laid. You’ve got the weekend off. I’ve got this new kid, Barton, playing tonight in your spot. Your hands need to heal, and his hands need to get bloodied so we can see if he’ll fit in.”
    Connor gave his coach a questioning look. He wasn’t happy that a new player was suiting up in his spot for the game.
    “Don’t even think it,” Lamoureux said. “No one can replace you, Dunzer. You are the Boise Bombers. Just take the weekend off and get those hands healed up. We have to play Cheyenne on Wednesday, and I want you ready. I’d like to make the playoffs again this year, if you don’t mind.”
    Lamoureux’s smile shut down the anger and the jealousy that had been trying to surface within him. He looked down at his hands. They looked like he’d spent two straight days punching a rough tree trunk full of nails. When he looked up again, Coach was filling out a tryout contract. Connor got up and left the office without another word, and made his way down the corridor toward the exit.
     
    *****
     
    “You are doing well,” Mr. Ojacarcu said to him from across the table. “Our friend, he is getting himself out of debt. I assume he is no trouble?”
    Connor shook his head, trying to watch the game below the luxury box while paying attention to his boss’ words. The view was spectacular from this far up. The luxury box seeming to hang out over the ice. As great as the view was, it could never equal the view from the ice, feeling his skates churning, shoulders colliding with other shoulders or the glass, the satisfaction of a pass or shot finding its target.
    “How many payments to go?” his boss asked.
    “Two more,” Connor said.
    “Good, good. Once he is caught up, you will continue to see him once per week, when you are home.”
    Connor’s mood dropped. He didn’t mind having to threaten some of Mr. Ojacarcu’s clients, whether it was with his fists or just his presence beside Petre or Vadim. He hated having to collect from Larry, having to see the skinny little greaser who lacked manners or hygiene. He hated seeing Jera even more, wondering if the leather collar ever left her neck, whether or not the little shit was the one leaving bruises on her face and body.
    She hated Connor’s guts. The feeling was mutual, except for the hint of desire that he always felt around her, even through her stench and vulgar insults that she bombarded him with at every opportunity in her screeching, nails-on-chalkboard voice. He could have his pick of the girls at the arena or at any of the downtown establishments. He rarely had to pay for drinks or food, and he never had to go home alone if he didn’t want to.
    Something stirred within him every time he saw Jera. He hated himself for wanting to know what it felt like to run his hands across her dark skin, for wanting to know what she sounded like when she wasn’t screaming at him. He wanted to know what it would feel like to remove the collar from her neck, to feel her lips on his. He fantasized