“Fuck!” Jean-Jacques Boiziau, the Voyageurs’ giant Haitian-Canadian
defenseman, hurled his stick at the wall of their dressing room.
“That’s enough, J.J.,” Shane said, but there was no real threat behind it.
To make it clear that he was in no mood to fight, or even argue, with
anyone, he slumped into his dressing room stall.
Shane’s left wing line mate, Hayden Pike, sat on the bench next to him,
as always. “You all right?” Hayden asked quietly.
“Sure,” Shane said flatly. He tipped his head back until it met the cool
wall behind him and closed his eyes.
Using the word “passionate” to describe Montreal hockey fans would be
an understatement. Montreal loved the Voyageurs to the point of absurdity.
Their arena was one of the toughest places for visiting teams to play,
because they faced not only one of the best teams in the league, but the
loudest fans in the league as well. The fans also had no problem letting
their own beloved team know exactly how disappointed they were with
them.
But when Montreal fans were really devastated, like they had been
tonight, they were almost silent. And that was Shane Hollander’s least
favorite sound.
“You know what would be sweet?” Hayden asked. “You know that
movie, The Purge? Where you get to, like, break whatever laws for one
night with no consequences?”
“Sort of,” Shane said.
“Man, if that was real, I would murder the fuck out of Rozanov.”
Shane laughed. He couldn’t disagree that bludgeoning that smug
Russian face would be at least a little satisfying.
Their coach entered the room and voiced his disappointment with
remarkable calm. It was early in the season—this had been their first
regular season matchup against Boston—and they had been playing well
most games. This was a glitch. They would move on.
Then it was time to face the press. At that moment, Shane would have
preferred to see a pack of starving wolves enter the room, but he knew
there was no avoiding the reporters. They always wanted to talk to him,
specifically, after every game, and especially after games where he faced
Rozanov.
He pulled his sweat-soaked jersey off over his head so the CCM-
branded athletic undershirt would be seen on camera. Part of his