A/N: I notice I haven’t put in a disclaimer in a while. So let me repeat in all seriousness, this is a work of FICTION and I know nothing of the real Colorado Avalanche and am in no way affiliated with them.
Chapter 188: Joey V—Not in the Mood
As far as it concerned losing games, of course Joe couldn’t think of ever being in the mood to lose them. There was no such thing as a “good” loss, even those in overtime when you really need that one point in the standings. Of course he did know that sometimes a loss was inevitable, it was unfolding in front of your eyes and perhaps there wasn’t going to be much to stop it. Usually he noticed a situation like that when the goalie was in obvious distress.
Patrick had not really given a soft goal on that first one. Joe saw that it was a good shot, a hard one, and one that certainly had its spot picked. He wasn’t about to take away from the talent of the shooter there. Still, Patty may as well have given up a softie considering it was his penalty that had led to that goal.
Joe had seen Patty jab Brett Hull, he noticed that the referee had warned him and still the goalie jabbed Fedorov in the groin, almost as if in deliberate defiance of the man. Patty was in no charitable mood. Joe didn’t know why. He didn’t see any obvious reason why Patty would be so irritable sometimes, but it wasn’t as if he knew every detail of the goalie’s life and mind. He was still feeling a sense of shock from years ago when he awoke to get a phone call from Alex Tanguay, the kid blubbering about the goalie’s arrest. He had never pegged him as the type who would terrorize his own family.
Joe cared about Patrick, he liked his sense of humor, and generosity and sense of duty. True, Patrick’s qualities as a patriot left a lot to be desired but when it came to his immediate teammates, Joe knew where Patrick’s priorities lay. So it was always confusing on nights like this when Patty would be… well… Patty. Did he sincerely lose his mind sometimes? Was it just the excuse of mad goalie syndrome?
Sometimes, Joe didn’t feel in the mood to roll those enigmas in his head. Tonight, was pretty much one of those nights. Four goals would be an irritating thing; three goals in a period were pretty bad. As a team he knew how hard it was to find that energy to push on after glancing at a scoreboard that was at 4-0. A goaltender, of course he would feel that pressure, but it was the choice they made. As far as he was concerned, it was a choice that they should be mature enough to deal with, especially one as old as Patty was.
He remembered in the week preceding the trade for Raymond Bourque, Patty had been holding the fort with a flurry of save after save in a game against the St. Louis Blues. Joe remembered being frustrated that the Blues were compiling a shot total going into the forties and the Avalanche would finish the game barely cracking the double digits. Patty could have been a hero there, it was a spot Patty basked in, craved, fought for. Inexplicably, the goalie felt the need to totter around the ice, giving up goals on puckhandling mishandles and then making another flurry of saves before abandoning his net again. The most vivid thing that stuck in Joe’s mind was their defenseman Aaron Miller running into the crease Patty had abandoned, stopping the puck and giving Joe the most helpless eyes he had ever seen. “What is wrong with him?” Miller had said, his voice tinted with more worry than anger.
Joe had not been in the mood that night, not in the slightest, not when they had been desperate for two points in the standings. Patrick’s eyes had sparked at first and he had screamed back at him in the locker. Joe remembered the anger in himself. He stood his ground and drilled the goalie with his thoughts, his disappointment, his heartbreak that he would abandon the team like that simply so he could be more of a focal point in the game.
It was an amazing thing that night. Patrick’s arrogant, sparking eyes as he yelled back, cursed, insulted, and then his words became farther in-between, quieter. Joe had seen the transformation in Patrick’s eyes to the point where they were glistening and meek, and he finally, quietly said, casting his gaze down, “I was trying to help the team.”
Joe had shook his head. “No, that can’t be it. How are you helping us if you’re waddling at center ice?”
Patrick had wrinkled his nose, like a boy would. “Six shots on net for us halfway through the second period, they have thirty. I wanted to push it up, get it away.”
Joe still shook his head. “Nah, nah, I don’t buy that Patty, understand? I don’t BUY it.”
“Well it’s true!” Patrick had bellowed, tossing his arms into the air. “What fucking else you want eh?”
“I want you to cut that out,” Joe yelled back. “I don’t mind you handling it but if you’re making a flippin freak show of yourself every friggin minute of the game you’re hurting us, and only thinking of yourself! Dammit how can we play if we’re scared about what you’re going to do next?”
Patrick exhaled loudly, didn’t look away. “If you don’t want me to, then tell me. In the middle of a game, just tell me and I will comply yes?”
“You’re a sixteen year veteran,” Joe had replied, “You shouldn’t have to be told.”
Joe had expected a snip, a retort, a yell from Patrick in his own defense. The goalie grimaced and closed his eyes, sat heavily onto the bench, dropped his face into his hands. At that time, Joe had actually thought to himself that this was where he was ending, that the goalie was there at his end road. He knew now that Patrick was barely getting to the beginning of his end.
Ray Bourque’s presence had helped Patty in ways that Joe had never thought could happen. He had seen a virtual transformation in the man that seemed to stem from some sort of magic that Raymond had brought inside his sleeve. It added years to Patty’s career, Joe was convinced of that.
It was at times like these, Joe thought as he watched Patty chasing the referee down, howling about a “non-goal” that he missed Bourque’s calming voice. He was in no mood to deal with this, none a’tall.
“Keaner!” Joe barked as he leaned over the bench. “Go get him before something happens that we’re not ready for!”
Keaner didn’t have to be told, he skated to Patty, touching him, trying to calm him but Patty was obviously having none of it.
….that we’re not ready for.
Joe raised his eyebrows as the octopus smacked onto Patrick’s mask to the delight of the entire arena. Of course this would happen? Why wouldn’t it? The way the season was going he was mad at himself for not expecting this.
Joe shook his head as the goalie vented the brunt of his frustrations onto the dead, slimy creature and cracked the glass as he did so. Joe would have thought he would be mad at Patrick for such a display but as Patrick stormed past them into the locker room, Joe got a big whiff of the octopus stench it had left on him. He rather understood that reaction, he probably would have done the same himself at that.
Thankfully, Patrick was sleeping or pretending to be asleep or hibernating or whatever when they went into the locker room for the second intermission. It didn’t matter what Patrick was up to as long as he was quiet and not stirring up the team. He was looking to avoid a repeat holocaust of the last game where the teams had met.
The third period was a disaster. No one could forget that injury Chelios had laid to Dru and that resulted into an almost tragedy as Parker tried to annihilate Sergei Fedorov. Joe had seen the start of it, almost in slow motion. He saw Sergei’s head perpendicular to the boards, he saw the speed Parker was coming at him, and then that blessed Alex yelled for Sergei to move. Tragedy averted, a tragedy Joe had not felt himself ready for.
When Tanguay, pale faced and wide eyed had come to the bench, Joe leaned over to the kid, “Hey,” he said.
Alex looked at him, quivering eyes.
“You did the right thing,” Joe said. “Don’t ever change your style.”
After the game there was a casualty count. Dru was certainly dealt a knee injury, how serious they didn’t know yet. Messier’s nose was broken from a high stick. Parker had a possibly serious concussion from his missed hit and he more than likely was going to have the hit looked at by the league officials. Patty couldn’t be forgotten either. There had to be consequences for his actions and Joe was hoping fervently that it was nothing more than a stiff fine. The fact that he had been in essence assaulted by the fans, would that count for something?
Patrick said nothing after the game. Joe didn’t approach him either and he didn’t encourage anyone else to. On the bus, Joe noticed Keaner sitting with him, talking softly to him. Patrick didn’t seem to be animated or irritated, he seemed calmer. It would be better in the morning things always were.
“I must be a traitor!” Alex Tanguay moaned just as Joe was about to drift off to sleep in the nicely firm hotel bed.
Joe sighed, he didn’t feel like staying up and talking to the boy. “Why? Because you warned him?”
Tangers replied. “Yeah, I mean I didn’t think of the team, I was just… I was…”
“You were thinking of the team,” Joe said calmly. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You stopped a serious incident from happening that would have damaged the integrity of our team. Parker was the stupid one and he’s in bad shape because of it.”
“Oh,” Tangers replied and said nothing more. That satisfied Joe because it meant the conversation was done, he wasn’t needed as a babysitter anymore.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
Joe opened his eyes… what time was it? He sat up, could hear Alex snoring. Could that kid be honestly sleeping through this?
BAM! BAM! BAM!
Joe sat up, glared at the other bed where Alex was still snoring. He groaned as he got out of bed and he stretched, yawned and went to the door where someone was banging on it.
“Who that?”
Joe looked back at the outlines of Alex who was now sitting up. Shaking his head, Joe opened the door and was greeted by the sight of two tall, burly, pale men dressed head to toe in black clothes. Their noses were red, as were their cheeks, they had the look of men who had been outside in the cold.
“Alex Tanguay?” one of the men said in a distinct, deep Russian Accent
Joe narrowed his eyes, noticed that neither of them had their hands in their pockets or in the flap of their jackets, they weren’t preparing to pull a weapon. Joe yawned and looked back, saw Tangers blinking. “Kid, it’s for you.” Joe said.
He passed Tangers as the boy walked nervously to the door and Joe threw himself on the bed, closing his eyes.
“WOAH!” he heard Alex exclaim and he knew that they had reached into the room and dragged him out, heard the door slam. Should he go get him? He heard the voices outside of the door, none of them were raised, none of them were distinct. There probably wasn’t too much of a problem.
Joe was just drifting back into sleep when Tanguay returned, the door opened, his feet patting on the carpet. Joe opened one eye, irritated. The kid was really responsible for his lack of a good night sleep tonight, he wasn’t in the mood for this. He could hear him breathing, sitting in bed.
“So what did they want?” Joe asked feeling groggy.
He heard Alex swallow.
“They Russian Mafia!” he said in an awed voice.
“I figure that much,” Joe replied.
“They like say that since I did favor for Sergei that I get to you know, when I’m in need like call on them for favor!” Tanguay said in a heavily, nervously accented voice.
“Oh,” Joe
said and he yawned. “Just don’t waste it on something stupid like an underage
hooker or a
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