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“The only thing that’s gonna be crushed here is your ego.” I skate by him, adding some emphasis as I say “nephew.”
The way his expression changes makes me grin.
Leo is an outstanding player, and I can admit—only to myself—that I’m nowhere near a level where I can beat him yet. But it’s like he’s made it his life’s quest to shit on me every chance he gets.
During Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays—including my own—and every time the whole Cassiano clan gathers, Leo has to go on and on about how he’s the best in the game and I shouldn’t even try. Just because he was born three years before me and found hockey first doesn’t mean he can stake exclusivity over it. He even has my parents, his grandparents, convinced it’s a waste for me to follow in his steps when they’re so grand already.
Yeah, we’re complicated. And the fact that I’m his uncle embarrasses the hell out of Leo.
Bunch of years ago, he was interviewed for SPORTY magazine, and when my name came up, he said I was his cousin. Like having an uncle younger than him would be some sort of mark against him. And ever since, it’s the only leverage I have against him. I’m not above using it… a lot.
He keeps glaring at me as we sing the anthem. All I do is smile, even though I know the second play starts, he’s going to come at me like a battering ram.
Leo bends forward in front of me. The ref stands between us, raising the puck. This is probably the most important faceoff of my life. I have to win, even if it costs all my teeth.
The puck drops with a slap.
My asshole nephew stabs at my arm with his stick, hitting a spot the pads don’t cover. I still get the puck for the Bolts. He slams against me to slow me down.
“Good luck. You’ll need it against me!” he shouts before skating away.
My arm throbs. Can’t wait to return the favor.
Maybe Boucher and the others are right and I was a terrible pick for captain. Thanks to my nephew’s bullshit, I sort of forgot that the Bolts are in shambles right now. It doesn’t matter that I won the faceoff when no one’s here to pick up the puck. Instead of starting on the offensive, the Bulldogs steal the puck from us and attack our goal.
The only reason they don’t score is because of the providence. Our D is haphazard. Our goalie looks confused by the crowd in front of him.
It’s gonna be a long game, huh?
A few minutes later, when my line changes and I sit at the bench, I can see on Coach Green’s face that he agrees with me. This is torture.
“Defense! Look at the puck and not your own noses!” The veins in his neck protrude with the strength of his scream. Then he turns to me, and I brace for the demise of my eardrums. “Cassiano.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Go out there and play dirty.”
I blink rapidly. “Excuse me?”
“There’s nothing friendly about this damn game.” Coach bites on his bubble gum with enough force to pulverize it. “I don’t care if it gets you in the penalty box. Go and do something that lights a fire under your teammate’s asses.”
I guess if the captain is supposed to be some sort of role model for the team, that’s what’s needed right now to wake them up. Some assholery.
And I know just the way.
With a couple of instructions to my guys, I make a quick plan. I’m almost giddy when I’m back on the ice. One of the Bolts passes the puck over to me, and it’s time to fool around.
I feint a pass to Conor. It acts as a siren call to Leo, who tries to intercept me. I may not be as good a skater as Tinker Bell, but I know a trick or two. I glide closer to the boards, baiting him. Sure enough, he picks up speed to smack right into me. I bend down and hit the puck to pass it. Leo rams into the board on his own a nanosecond before I get there. With the momentum I carry, I blow right into him at a low spot and make him crash down like a Jenga tower.
I can only chuckle as the booing intensifies. Leo glares up at me, but I skate away. The puck’s still in play, and I don’t have time for him.
Conor makes a shot on goal, but the Bulldogs’ goalie deflects it. The puck slides to me like it’s being served on a silver platter, and I shoot.
An instant before a boulder runs through me from behind.
The whistle pierces through the action. And not a buzzer. Which means I didn’t score. Damn it.
“Take that, Maxi Pad.” Leo rolls off me, giggling as if he scored some big win.
