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It’s tempting to tell him to fuck off, that I can manage my own life. But that’s not how this team, this family works. “It’s first on my agenda, Cap,” I murmur.
He nods, claps a hand down onto my shoulder. “Good,” he says. “And just so you know, I expect a shutout tonight.”
I snort. “You know you just fucking cursed it, yeah?”
Because to have a shutout, you don’t talk about shutouts.
“I don’t believe in fate.” He tosses the bottle into the recycle bin. “I believe in skill.” A smirk as he takes off for the dressing room. “And I believe in your skill in particular, Banana-rama.”
I roll my eyes.
That goddamned nickname.
But I don’t fight it.
Because I have a fucking game to get ready for.
* * *
Despite Josh’s faux pas of mentioning a shutout and likely jinxing it, we’re well on the way to shutting down the Grizzlies’ offense through all three periods.
Just a little more than two minutes left now, and the face-off is in the offensive zone, meaning that I’m watching my teammates’ asses and trying to predict who’s going to win the draw?—
And if it’s going to come my way in an odd man rush, or if they’ll keep it on the opposite end of the ice for the rest of the game.
I wish I could say I wouldn’t mind the former, that I’m bored and ready for some action.
But…
I’m tired.
I want the game to be over, and I want to go home.
The whistle trills and I crouch, getting ready for the drop, which happens a bare heartbeat later, the centers’ sticks coming together in a crack of sound. I watch the puck deflect off the ref’s skates and bounce into the corner, our winger hustling forward but not getting there in time to make that first touch.
The puck rings around the boards, and is kept in by Josh, who shoots it over to our other defenseman. He’s young and new to the roster, and when he faces the quick burst of pressure from the Grizzlies, he panics—easy to see even from the other side of the ice—flicking the biscuit towards the net with a quick wrist shot.
Unfortunately those types of panic-driven tosses of the puck very rarely get through.
These guys are too good at crowding the middle and blocking shots and protecting their goalies to let a squeaker get through on the regular.
Not to say that it doesn’t happen—there are always fuck-ups, bounces go the wrong way, and the hockey gods are cruel.
But the panicked shot when we’re up two to zero with—my eyes flick to the clock—now just over a minute to go, are fucking killing me.
Because that’s not smart hockey.
Because I know where this is going.
The puck hits one of our opponents’ shin guards with a resounding thud.
And it bounces hard.
Out of reach of my guys.
Over the blue line.
Out of the offensive zone.
