Page 80 of Slap Shot
“Friends,” I repeat, and from him, it’s a special word.
TWENTY-THREE
HUDSON
Our four-game winstreak is in jeopardy of being broken tonight.
We’re getting our asses handed to us by the Orlando Hurricanes, and we’ve played like shit since the puck dropped.
It doesn’t help that the referees keep sending us to the sin bin for questionable penalties, and it feels like we’re one play away from the game getting out of control.
To add insult to injury, Coach earned a game misconduct for screaming at the refs after two missed tripping calls. He refused to leave the box for five minutes before being escorted to the locker room by arena security.
Not even our faithful hometown crowd can help revive us. Being down 4-1 with five minutes left in the third period, we’d need a miracle to get out of here with a win.
Things aren’t looking good.
“Fucking asshats,” Maverick yells from the bench when Grant gets tangled up with an Orlando player. “This is fuckingbullshit.”
“We’ve got a damn target on our back. The worst team in the league beating the defending Stanley Cup champions? C’mon. That shit is fuel to the fire.” I take a sip of Body Armor and handthe bottle back to our equipment manager. “Gotta keep our chins up for five more minutes. That’s it.”
“If I don’t wind up in jail at the end of this, it’ll be a miracle,” Mav grumbles, and we tumble onto the ice in unison for a line switch.
Both our offense and defense have been stagnant all night. Each shot we take is an inch wide. Each one of Liam’s attempted saves is a half second too late. He broke his stick during intermission, and I know he’s pissed at himself for giving up so many goals when he leads the league in save percentage.
“Hayes,” Riley calls out. “All yours.”
He passes me the puck after scooping up a rebound. The rest of our teammates are still behind our net and throwing an extra elbow when they shouldn’t be. They’re starting shit because tempers are high, and I take advantage of the open ice. I head for our opponent’s goal, refusing to go down without some sort of a fucking fight.
When my mom was around, she used to tease me.
She said I was a giver, not a taker, because I’ve never really cared about scoring. Some guys want to be the skating leaders with the most points, but that doesn’t mean anything to me. I prefer assisting. Passing to someone who can sink a pretty slap shot like it’s an easy Sunday morning walk.
It’s almost like I can hear her whispering at me to take the shot for once. She’s urging me to charge forward, and after a quick glance up at the rafters, I grin as I pass center ice.
The Orlando player who just emerged from the penalty box spots me coming. He takes off in my direction, but he never bothers to track the puck. He’s only paying attention tome, and there’s a scary look in his eye.
I expect him to stop. I expect him to reach out his stick and deflect the breakaway. I expect him to force me left, away and around the goal instead of straight on at the crease. It’s a typicaldefensive play, one I’ve practiced thousands of times. It’s what I would do if I was in his position, but he does none of those things.
Instead, he’s leaning forward, pivoting his body, and turning his shoulder. He’s moving faster. One minute I’m on my skates, and the next I’m airborne.
A searing pain shoots up my arm as I flail mid-air. A yell works its way from my mouth. In an effort to protect my head and wrists as I come down, I land on my side.
The ice is cold beneath me. There’s an excruciating throb in my arm. Everything hurts, and I lie motionless, afraid to move out of fear I broke a bone.
Or worse.
Blinking my eyes open, I see our Stanley Cup Champions banner hanging in the corner of the arena. I hear whistles being blown and what sounds like a scream from somewhere behind me.
You’re okay, I tell myself.You’re conscious.You’re breathing.That’s enough.
“Hey.Hey.” Lexi appears at my side, and it’s never a good sign when she’s on the ice. “Talk to me, Hudson. What hurts?”
“My arm.” I grimace, holding back the string of curses I want to yell out. “My right shoulder.”
“What about your spine? Your head? Can you wiggle your toes?”
“Let me try,” I grit out, and the relief is sweet when all five of my toes on both feet curl and release like they should. “I can move my toes.”
