“I make that call, Leslie. You’re not going anywhere right now. Sit the fuck down for a couple of minutes.”
“This is bullshit, for the record.” But I sit down with a heavy thud onto the bench.Ow, fuck. It hurts to move like that. God dammit. Okay, maybe I do need a minute for the Tylenol to kick in.
I’m genuinely pissed I’m not out there, but at the same time, I’m warmed by the care. It’s kinda nice to have his attention for something that goes above our hockey relationship. I can tell he’s losing his mind about me being hurt even though he’s doing his best to remain professional. He wouldn’t have bothered to skate onto the ice for another player, he’d have let the more than qualified medical team handle it.
Baby.He called me baby.
The energy builds as the minutes of sudden death tick by. One goal, just one, and it’s over. It could happen at any time, by either team. We’ve brought our best tonight. We’re hungry beasts. We want that damn cup. I get caught up watching my teammates, literally on the edge of my seat, holding my breath at times, and not because of my bashed-in torso. We’ve got the puck. It’s a game of pass between our offense in the attack zone.
Alderchuck looks, he shoots … he …! Blocked by Tikkan. Dammit. Their goalie is pretty good, but can he please get tired? We just need one in. One and we’re drinking beer from that cup.
Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. It’s knocked wide. Sutter moves up after the puck. It happens so fast that the front of our net’s wide open. Jesus Christ, how is the fucking net wide open with Stronghold on the other side of the attack zone, way too far from his net than he should be? Sutter takes the easy shot from center ice.
The arena freezes. Holds its breath.
Because it’sgoingto go in.
Bers Stronghold skates sideways and leaps, catching the puck out of midair, and then lands on his stomach, skidding across the goal line. I’ve never seen anything like that before. What a damn save!
The crowd cheers so loud you couldn’t hear a lion roar if it were smack dab at center ice and all of us bang our sticks on whatever surface we’re near.
The heart stopping shit continues for the next ten minutes, which doesn’t sound like a long time, but this is our fourth period and at this rate it looks like we’re going to a fifth.
Pucks go off crossbars, andjustmiss the net. Both goaltenders are on their best game, contorting their bodies in ways you wouldn’t think humanly possible with that much padding on to make record-breaking saves. There are times when you could hear a pin drop in the arena and other times the crowd is cheering so loud it drowns out the sound of anything else. The stifling intensity has all of us in a chokehold.
And guess who’s still on the bench after ten minutes? Me. I’m on the bench. Merc won’t look at me so I can’t even use the power of my puppy stare. Not that I think it would work for this, but I’d do it anyway. I mean, I don’t believe for a second he isn’t surveying me in some way, but he’s doing it covertly.
If I’m right that is.
At eighteen-eighteen in the fourth period, Miller’s down. Kaarlson (Boston) fell over on a sliding turn and Miller was already there just in time to take a skate to the … oh shit, he’s holding his knee. He can’t put weight on it. Dash and one of the medics help him off the ice, sliding him on one skate toward the benches.
He’s out.
And guess what?
He’s a centerman.
That means … “Put me in Coach,please,” I beg for his ears only.
He’s in a bind. He could put another center out, but they’re reaching physical limits while I’ve been out of the game for ten whole minutes.
“Get over here, Leslie. Put your left arm over your head and take a deep breath.”
“But, Mer—Coach … C’mon!”
“Then I’ll try Nolan.”
I put my damn arm over my head and inhale. I wince when I get to the deepest part of the inhale. It’s not a fun time, but I’m okay. I’ve had worse. Besides, pretty sure the Tylenol’s doing its job of masking the sharpest of the agony.
His face is expressionless as he watches. Concern tightens his body. I can almost hear the war in his mind. As my boyfriend—fuck him, I’m still calling him my boyfriend—he wants to keep me far away from the ice and the battering rams also known as Boston’s defensemen, but as my coach, he knows I’m well enough to get by for the rest of this period.
He huffs. “Score me a goal, Leslie.”
Fucking, eh!
Hopping over the boards is a sharp stabbing world of hurt, but if us hockey players can do anything, it’s ignore massive amounts of pain. The rest of me is rested though. Well, the word rested might be a stretch, but I’ve had a longer break than anyone else and longer than I’m used to having during a game. All that time to watch the game’s revved me up and I have a new burst of adrenaline to work with.
I lean over at center ice with my stick rested on my thighs facing off with Sutter. I sneer at him.
