Crossing the Line

I had the pleasure of sitting down with hockey’s most notable bad boy and let me tell you, he lives up to his name. Then again, have you seen him? Six-five, two-twenty, the guy’s a beast. The fans adore him, the other team fears him, and the ladies . . . well, they want to climb him like a jungle gym. Ask anyone who follows hockey and they will tell you that Chase Barrett can be as bad as he wants, whenever and wherever.

—Excerpt from Sports Unlimited’s Bad Boys of Sports edition

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Chase

“We love you, Sin!” someone yells as I skate to the box.

A familiar tune plays through the arena—“Get Free” by the Vines—and the crowd boos the refs. I fight a smile as I step into the penalty box, then drop my ass on the bench and grab a water bottle.

“Next time, kick his ass, Barrett!”

The fact that my cheering section sits directly behind the penalty box doesn’t surprise me in the least. Maybe they got the memo that this is the best way to get close to me since I’ve become rather acquainted with this particular seat.

I offer a fist in the air as acknowledgment, but don’t bother looking back. I’m more focused on the replay on the jumbotron, curious as to what that play looked like from a different angle. I’m well aware of what it looked like from down here on the ice.

Not pretty.

For the other guy.

The memory of the asshole’s face when I cross-checked him makes me smile. No, I didn’t use enough force to injure him, just enough to get his attention. My temper got the best of me. It happens.

Not my fault the pretty boy thought it was okay that he got away with high-sticking me earlier. If the ref isn’t going to call it, I’m more than willing to deliver my own punishment. And I did. Didn’t matter to me that I’d earn a two-minute minor that put me right in the box. That’s what I do.

Truthfully, I probably deserved a double minor for that little stunt I pulled, but I’m good with two. Certainly not going to ask for more.

I have a theory about this. With my recent four-year, $25 million contract, I figure I should give my team their money’s worth. No, my coach won’t be thrilled with my actions tonight, and I’ll probably get a good tongue-lashing, but it boils down to this: My actions throw my opponents off their game. Sometimes that’s necessary.

See, the fans call me Sin, the coach calls me a troublemaker, the other team calls me a nuisance, and the media calls me the bad boy of hockey. Oh, and my best friend Cassie . . . well, she calls me a world-class asshole. All are probably fitting, considering.

I took on the nickname Sin long before I got my break in the NHL six years ago, at the ripe young age of twenty-one. I think it first happened when I was around sixteen, maybe seventeen, back during a time when winning and losing didn’t mean quite the same thing as it does in the big leagues. If you’re into ice hockey, you’re probably familiar with the penalty box, also referred to as the sin bin. Yep, that’s where I spend a lot of my time, hence the nickname.

I’ve earned it.

I’m proud of it.

As for why they call me the bad boy of hockey . . . I’m fairly certain that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with my “player” status with the ladies. I don’t hear anyone complaining though. I’d have to assume that it’s also the reason I made the cover of Sports Unlimited. Two years in a row. Sure, one of those might have been the “Bad Boys of Sports” issue, but so be it. I’m not above being in the limelight. It keeps my name circulating, which ultimately keeps me playing.

Truth is, I really don’t give a shit what anyone calls me as long as they keep sending my ass out on the ice. It might look like I don’t enjoy what I do, considering all the time I spend in the penalty box, but don’t let that fool you. I love every fucking minute of it. In fact, I love every aspect of my life.

As the seconds tick down, I keep my attention divided between the timer and my teammates who are forced on the penalty kill because of me. Some probably think I should feel bad, but I don’t.

Not even a little bit.