For me, I believed that uttering a particular word aloud would jinx a good thing I had going.
That word? Shutout.
And to this point, it had worked, considering I was the top goaltender in the league in that category.
I wanted it more than ever tonight. To dedicate the win—the shutout—to Gemma. I wasn’t only doing this for myself anymore. I was doing it for us. She had become a driving force, my motivation to be better than ever before.
Funny how your life could change in an instant.
Thoughts of my girl were pushed aside as the Miami Storm were headed my way on an odd-man rush. All three of their forwards were speeding through the neutral zone with only my two defenders, Wyatt Banks and Logan Ford, to stop them. I could see Braxton skating his ass off to catch up on the backcheck, but unfortunately, there wasn’t enough time for him to close the gap before the Storm players reached me.
My eyes shifted, watching the progress of the rush as Wyatt and Logan skated backward. Should they fail to stop our opponents from reaching the net, I was the last line of defense.
And I was ready.
There might be three of them, but my gaze honed in on Norris, the one with the puck. I cataloged everything about the way his feet moved and how his blade was positioned in anticipation of his next move.
With his stick blade held parallel to the boards, I was waiting for him to pass to one of his teammates. It was only a matter of which one and when.
Lightning quick, he passed to the one in the middle, Jones, who tapped it to the one on the left, Eaton. That had Wyatt charging at Eaton as the puck was slid back over to Jones.
Now, it was Jones and Norris against Logan. Braxton had just cleared the blue line, coming in hot from behind the play.
With determination glinting in his eyes behind his visor, Jones pulled back to shoot. Even though I squared up, my glove at the ready, I knew from having watched countless hours of film on the Storm in preparation that it was a fake-out—he was going to pretend to wind up, only to pass to Norris.
Hold. Hold. Hold.
There.
Jones brought his stick blade down to the ice, but instead of a close-range slapshot, as he’d indicated, it was a quick flick of the wrist, sliding the puck to Norris, who was already poised to shoot the one-timer.
Logan did his best to break up the pass, going down to a knee and extending his stick between the two players for the Storm, but he was a split-second too late.
That meant only one thing: it was me versus Norris.
I’ve got this. Bring it on.
His stick was already coming down with force, so I pushed my feet out wide, digging my skates into the ice beneath them, ready to drop if he decided to be sneaky and try to go five-hole. Norris brought his stick down so hard there was a sharp crack as it met with the ice, and the puck was slung off his stick blade and into the air, hurtling straight toward me.
Hand-eye coordination was crucial in order to play goalie, and I’d worked hard over the years, honing that skill. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it was automatic, almost a reflexive muscle memory, where I reached out with a gloved hand and snagged a puck out of the air.
But they didn’t call hockey a game of inches for nothing.
I was off just a fraction, closing my glove too soon. So, instead of holding the puck securely long enough for the ref to whistle, signaling a stoppage in play, it dropped to the ice at my feet.
The Storm players tracked the move and were on me in a flash. I dropped to a butterfly, pressing my skate blades against both posts, splitting my legs to make sure they couldn’t shove the puck past me while my gloved hand groped blindly for the puck. I couldn’t see shit with all the skates and sticks flying in my vision.
Thank God the ref lost sight of the puck, too, because he blew his whistle even though I didn’t have it secured. That only pissed off the Storm, their players shouting it was still loose and ignoring the whistle, continuing to shove their sticks against my sprawled-out form, trying to jam the puck into the net.
The next thing I knew, Braxton came in with a flying cross-check to Norris’s face, sending him sprawling as he screamed, “Don’t touch my tendy!”
That started a chain reaction, and pretty soon, all ten skaters—five for each team—were engaged in a massive brawl. Punches were thrown, helmets were knocked off, and bodies were slammed to the ice. The refs were trying and failing to break it up, and as I rose to my feet, I couldn’t help but laugh.
There was no one else I’d rather go to war with on the ice than the guys currently duking it out on my behalf.
Asher was pulled from his position straddling Jones, grinning from ear to ear. He skated over to me as I tugged off my mask, grabbed a drink of water, and enjoyed my view of the chaos.
“You sure you don’t want a piece of the action?” he teased.
