This guy fucking sucks.
Unlike the captain of the Hawthorne Eagles, I’m able to use my skills to snake the puck away—and once it’s on my stick—it’s a game of ‘now you see it, now you don’t’.Everything around me slows down and it’s just me and the puck. I charge down the ice with blinders on. Anything outside the rink became non-existent forty minutes ago, when I first stepped on the ice. I catch Silas open on the far side of the net, and in one of the most beautiful passes of my life, I send the puck flying straight to his waiting stick. With a smooth flick of his wrist, he finishes the drill with a backhand to the top shelf.
Red lights flash and the horn blares, signaling we’re now up three to one with only twenty seconds left in the second period. After we reset, it’s just a matter of boxing out the other team so they have no shot at scoring. The puck drops and I win the reaction time, hauling ass away from anyone not in Lions green and black, and I play it safe by running down the clock until the buzzer sounds.
Even though we’re up, the team is focused as we leave the bench and head toward the tunnel. From the second I walk into the locker room on game day until I’m dressed after myshower, my focus is one hundred and ten percent on the ice. So, when I feel a pinprick at my neck, I pause with one foot still on the ice. I was taught from a very early age that I can ignore anything—that my mind is stronger than any pain or discomfort. This feeling heating my skin is by no means painful, but for whatever reason, I find myself fighting like hell to ignore it. I rub at the back of my neck, take the final step off the ice, and do something I’ve never done before.
My heavy breathing stalls in my throat when I look up and find long lashes and chocolate-brown eyes glinting down at me. How the hell is she able to make me feel like we’re the only two people in this six-thousand person arena?
Is this the reason I’ve had to block the world out during games?
I wink at her and catch the smallest hint of a smile before I’m shoved forward toward the locker room.
I drop down on the bench, squeezing my water bottle on the back of my neck.
She came.
I spent most of the morning trying to decide if I should text her after the way we left things last night, but I also didn’t want to spook her. I’m fucking stoked that Savannah showed up, but I didn’t expect to get distracted like this. I need to focus. We’re up going into the final period, and I can’t let that lead slip away. Aside from never hearing the end of it from my dad, I can’t let my team down like that, either.
“That Voss guy is a piece of shit, aye?” Silas huffs, pulling his helmet off.
“He wants a piece of you, that's for sure.” Maverick lifts his chin to me, but I don’t respond.
My heartbeat is loud in my ears. Their captain isn’t the only member of their team that plays dirty, but he is their fucking ring leader—and for whatever reason—Hawthorne is getting away with murder out there. I swear if the ref had one more eye, he’d be a Cyclops. Fight rules are different in college. You can’t get away with shit. And yet, somehow, thisguy has been cross-checking left and right, and they never fucking call it.
I’m sure my dad will have something to say about how, if the other team is able to do something, then there is no reason I can’t do the same, but I’ve already let my mind slip a few too many times thinking about the pretty brunette out there. I’ll save my play-by-play and hypothetical conversations with my dad for my post-game shower routine.
Coach Alvarez goes over a few more plays and offers some words of advice. Once he gives the nod, my helmet goes back on, and the Lion comes out.
I’m flying down the ice when Voss forcibly chops his stick over Maverick’s, and my guy has had enough. “Slash me again, and I swear to god I’ll rip your fucking arms off and beat you with them,” he shouts at him.
Voss brings his fists up to his face in a rubbing motion like he’s wiping tears. “What are you gonna do? Huh?”
Maverick skates slowly beside him, but he’s not one to let shit like this go.
“Do something, come on.” Voss continues to taunt him, and I know Mav is less than a second away from charging him.
“Shut up, ya fuckin’ muppet,” I yell out, skating in front of Mav, gently nudging him back. “Let it go.”
“Listen to your girlfriend.” Voss laughs.
“Aye buddy, you look like you’re gettin’ rocked inside a fuckin’ bounce house the way you’re falling all over yourself tonight. Take the L and go sit down,” I call back, and his only response is to blow me a kiss.
The rest of the period goes by, Maverick following their captain around, making literal pigeon noises at him. I score my second goal, and being up four to one has Voss extra pissed.
My legs are smoked but I don’t dare let up. I’m pushing, flying down the ice, when out of nowhere, I’m charged frombehind. I go down hard. Tiny birds fly in a circle around my head, and before I can piece together what’s happened, Maverick has thrown his stick down and his gloves follow suit.
I skate back to the bench, and by the time I sit down and am able to open my eyes, the other guy is dripping blood and Mav is being escorted to the penalty box.
After the longest third period, colored lights circle the ice, music plays and we celebrate our win.
The arena is emptying out, and I’ll bet within the hour,Rowdy’swill be a full house. I hoist my duffle bag up on my suited shoulder when I spot my parents and my sister, Lana, talking to someone I don’t recognize. I meet up with them, kiss the top of my mom’s head, and she smiles her greeting at me.
“Great game, kid,” Lana whispers as I pull her in for a hug.
The three of us stand around, waiting quietly while my dad continues his conversation.
“Noah, this is Conor Burke, Assistant coach of the Detroit Saints.” My dad introduces us.
