“Fine. I’ll tell you some of our problems. Casey’s also in a shit mood. We’re playing against his arch-rival tonight—Mitch Sutter—and he’s ready to murder him.”
That pulls my attention back. I’m still in charge of this team until I officially quit. “He’s not murdering anyone. I’ll speak with him.”
“Good. He’ll listen to you.”
Probably not, but maybe he’ll turn the temperature down. “Anything else?”
“Dirk’s boyfriend dumped him. He’s been crying since this morning. He doesn’t have the heart tonight and I don’t think he should be on the ice. He’ll hurt himself.”
“Noted. What else?” I’ve already softened. Jack hasn’t done much, but something about him calms me and I guess I like being needed.
“Well, my guy always looks for me when I get on the bus, and he didn’t this time so now I feel like shit too.”
He’s giving me his puppy eyes. No, they’re doe eyes mixed with puppy eyes, which makes it hard to stay mad at anything. How did fucking Rhett let Jack go? I’m glad he did. His loss is my gain and all that.
I don’t know if it’s in our playbook, but I slide my hand down my thigh so it’s next to his and reach out to lock pinkies with him. He squeezes and I know I’m forgiven for being so in my head that I didn’t notice him.
“Also,” he whispers. “Johnson has jock itch and that’s put him in a real bitchy mood, but you didn’t hear it from me.”
Despite it all, I smile. I can’t find words, but a sliver of contentment settles within me and that makes all the difference.
“One last thing,” Jack says. “We’re playing the Boston Sharks tonight.”
“If I wasn’t aware of that, I should be fired from my job.”
“I’m sure you know whom we’re playing but you don’t knowwhomwe’re playing.” I quirk a brow because he makes no sense. “Not sure if you get just how much we hate them.”
“Not sure if you’re aware, but I have been at the last several Boston games.” I’ve accepted that the penalty minutes are abominable when we play Boston. Every team has a rival team.
“Yeah, but we were just warming up. It gets worse as the season wears on. Anything could happen tonight. You may want to relax the no alcohol rule this once.”
“Not till Friday, Leslie.” Friday is one of their allotted twice-per-month socials.
“There you are. Keep that level of fire. You’re gonna need it tonight.”
* * *
On The Ice
JACK
We’re several games into the season and on a six-game winning streak, but this will be our first game against Boston in a few weeks. I don’t remember what began our long-standing rivalry. Pretty sure we just hate them on principle now. All it takes is for someone to check someone else more than is considered “appropriate” (whatever that means in hockey) and there’s swift retaliation. Casey and Sutter’s additional beef is extra fuel on an already burning feud.
This time I have some hope. Our team, which has been a mixed bag, is sharper and cleaner than ever before. I’m giving all the credit to Mercy. Yeah, I’m fucking biased, but it’s also true. He’s not like other coaches. Even though he’s a fucking hard ass, he cares—a hard ass with heart.
So, it’s no surprise that everyone feels when the heart of our team has stopped beating.
I know Mercy well enough to know that something’s shaken him up. I bet I could have him fine by morning, but that doesn’t help us with his game and if we lose, he’ll feel guilt on top of that. But this game was doomed to begin with even if Merc and the rest of us were at our best.
It began during the pregame scrum and devolved from there. We went from rough hockey men to cavemen with sticks in our hands. It’s a wonder anyone’s scored at all between penalty minutes and fights.
We’re the definition of that joke: I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out.
Checking the score to make sure I’m not just in a nightmare—four them; us zero, God dammit—I attempt to formulate a plan to at least get a goal or two in. Okay, how much time is left? Twelve minutes. Fuck.
No one’s in this game though. Casey is real close to getting kicked out. Both he and Mitch (from the other team) have been in and out of the penalty box all night because they’ve been pounding the shit out of each other. Mother of God, Casey’s face looks like Rocky Balboa’s from the first Rocky and Mitch isn’t that much better off.
I’m beat up from stepping in between the two of them, which I’m not supposed to be doing as a centerman. I’m supposed to watch for the puck so I can put it in the net.
