“Tell Alderchuck I’m sweet on him since I fucked him in Boston,” he says with an evil cackle.
Wait, what?
I fall for the oldest trick in the book. When the puck’s dropped, I’ve still got a flash of Sutter drilling my best friend—they’re both hot and that level of hate-sex would be off the charts in chemistry—and Sutter is gone with the puck.
It all happens in a second, but that’s all it takes.
I spin and chase after him. Did he suddenly get faster in the ten minutes I spent slothing it on the bench? He’s a lot harder to keep up with than I remember. Yeah, no. I’m not giving him that much credit. This injury’s trying to slow me down. Fuck that. I will not be defeated by pain.
Putting all my focus on him helps me take the focus off the stabbing throb in my side. To be honest, I think I might have a bruised rib, but fuck my rib. I’m not letting Sutter get away from me.
Carey, one of our left defenders, is ready for him and knocks the puck away, straight into the cradle of my stick. I take off like a bat out of hell, passing it back to Stacey, who slaps it across to Casey without needing to check for him as if he has a sixth sense that his twin will be there. Their twin shit is eerie sometimes.
I make my way up through the neutral zone and tap my stick on the ice—I’m in front of the net, guys!—and catch the pass from Casey.
It’s just me and goaltender Tikkan.
I look. I shoot. I …
The puck goes high, but so does Tikkan’s glove. For one nerve-shredding heartbeat, we wait to see if his mitt will make contact. That gorgeous thick hunk of rubber falls just behind his glove, sinking into the top corner under the crossbar and into the fucking net.
I collapse on the ice—I’m dead—while the entire arena goes ballistic. Fans rise out of their seats, embracing and shouting. The horn sounds. Our team pours over the bench, even injured Miller who slides out on his ass, not missing this for anything.
My team doesn’t let me stay on the ground. They hoist me from the ice. If I thought they were excited about my last goal, well that was nothing. I’m attacked. We’re in a team huddle that collects more and more guys as they pile onto the ice. Sticks are everywhere. Helmets fly. Mitts slide around the ice.
Love my team, I love them so damn much, but there’s only one face I’m looking for.
Mercy slides onto the ice in his dress shoes and the team parts to include him in our huddle with Assistant Coach Elias following and other members of the coaching staff.
“That was amazing, Leslie. How’s your side?” Merc asks.
“I need beer. Beer will numb the pain.”
“You need an x-ray.”
Yeah. Probably.
Right now, we’re too distracted for that. They’re bringing out the cup and I want my turn skating with it over my head.
* * *
There are big plans for a celebration at Rodney’s that will involve a lot of us getting blasted. The team. Boyfriends and girlfriends. Family. Everyone’s heading that way. I end up as one of the last to leave since I was MVP for scoring that final goal and had to do a bunch of post-game interviews with the local reporters. There were even some influencers from Tik Tok and other social media apps who wanted pictures and comments.
I finally get to the dressing room in time for the guys to tell me they’ll wait outside in the van for me. It’s a rare moment alone in the locker room. The adrenaline’s still coursing, but tiredness and pain remind me of their presence, and it slows me down. Taking off my shirt I get to see the nasty fucking bruise forming across my torso.
God. Damn.
We won the cup. I would have sacrificed a lot more than this beauty. Worth it.
“Knock, knock,” a deep voice says, coming into the dressing room. It’s a handsome, well-dressed man and, oh shit, I know who he is.
“Edward Ardovini? Wow, what are you doing here?” He’s Rhett’s coach. Yeah, for the New York Eagles. His parents also own our team. I search for something, anything to cover my torso with. I’m sure he’s seen worse than what I’m sporting, but I feel so underdressed.
“Don’t worry about that. I once saw a guy get his neck cut open with a skate. We’re good.”
Shit. “Uh, how can I help you, sir?”
“No need for sir. I wanted to tell you that was a helluva game and ask if maybe you’d consider calling me coach?”
