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I move.
Or flop like an ungraceful fish, anyway.
But I manage to get a piece of the puck, deflecting it behind the net, scrambling up to my skates—still ungracefully—as I search for the puck, see it bouncing toward the boards.
Then Josh is there, scooping it up, the Grizzlies on him hard.
I risk a look in front of me, clock where the players are, and then look back in time to see that little fucker, Gray, snag the puck from him, flinging it back toward me.
It comes high and precisely at neck level, and I stand up straighter so that it doesn’t throat chop me, wincing when it clips my collarbone, something that still hurts, even with my pads.
Then I’m shaking that off, dropping back down as it heads for the ice, trying to beat it there, or meet it there, or, hell, to just fucking cover it so we can get a whistle and reset.
I hit the crease, stretch an arm out and…
I’m bumped, sending the puck squirting out to the side, sending me back to my ungraceful fishy thrashing again.
Sticking my leg out and blocking the shot they try to tap in.
Jumping forward, corralling the puck under my glove, only to get a stick to my hand for my trouble.
The puck slips out…
Slides right over to Gray.
And from my full-on beached-whale position on my back on the ice, I know I’m…fucked.
He winds up?—
The buzzer sounds.
Whistles blow.
The game’s over.
Gray lifts his stick, leaves the puck where it is, barely two feet in front of the net, and winks at me, mouthing, “Next time,” before skating away, heading over to his team’s bench.
Cocky little shit.
I collapse back onto the ice but can’t help smiling.
Kid’s got talent and attitude and balls, I have to give him that.
“Told you you’d kick ass,” Josh says, nudging me with his stick.
I groan, clamber up to my feet, turning to accept the post-game hugs and fist-bumps from my teammates, but I’m still grumbling at Josh.
“You had to talk about shutouts, didn’t you?”
He winks, and it’s the grown-up version of Gray’s. “Did you, or did you not accomplish that?”
I roll my eyes, smack his shoulder.
But he’s not wrong.
And I know I’m smiling the entire way to the locker room.
Twenty-Three
