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“It’s okay. We can take it as slow as you want.” I feel him place a kiss at the top of my head. In retribution, I caress his thigh, and it makes his breath hitch. “Or not? I’m fine with that too.”
My laughter comes out husky. We’re probably moving a bit too fast, but it feels right. Max is right for me.
CHAPTER 27
MAX
Iwish the date could’ve lasted all night. Things were getting good after dinner, while Tinker Bell and I played table games in which I kept winning and she grew more and more irritated. The payback for her turning me on more than a fireplace was interrupted by a frantic call from Conor.
“Uh, dude, I don’t know what you’re doing right now, but you need to drop it and come here.”
“What the hell for?” I didn’t even bother hiding my irritation.
“The guys are drunk out of their minds, and Boucher’s making a scene again.”
I considered telling him to deal with it, but then Tinker Bell got a text from a teammate saying they were getting into a situation with the Bolts. I put two and two together and figured the scene Boucher was causing involved the Strikes. That effectively ended the date earlier than I wanted.
Now, a day later, the hangover has most of the Bolts skating like snails during this game. I’m this close to batting each of their helmets off with my stick in the hopes that it’ll snap them out of the trance. Coach Green has already screamed himself raw and no longer has any juice. He stands with his arms crossed so tight there’s probably no circulation left in his fingertips.
It’s the third period, and no one’s scored a single damn goal. The other team is one of the bottom feeders of the conference, so this should be a pretty smooth win. But every time I try a play, everyone else is too slow for the passes to connect.
“Cassiano.” Coach barks my last name as if all of this is my fault. And maybe it is, by default. He grabs the loose straps of my helmet to pull me down to his eye level. “You’re the only one even trying. Just one goal. That’s all we need. I don’t care how you make it, but get it done.”
I clench my teeth so hard I’m surprised they don’t break. “Yes, sir.”
After strapping my helmet back in place, I wait until Coach calls the first line out to play. I swing over the board and land on the ice like a beast looking for a victim. If I have to play forward and defense at the same time, I freaking will. We’ll skate away with a victory tonight, even if it’s a lousy one.
Boucher passes the puck to me, and I have to remind myself that he’s a Bolt. Otherwise, I might just ram my shoulder into his solar plexus. I channel all my frustration into this play. An opponent tries to block me, and I slide the biscuit between his legs as if he’s a child. Another one tries to get in the way. I feint left and twirl around him on the right just like I’ve seen my girlfriend do. Not a single Bolt is in sight to help me out. It’s all on me.
A big D-man from the other team rushes over with the clear intention of turning me into a pancake. He’s the last man between his goalie and me. I grin in the face of danger. Just before the dude connects, I bend down all the way and ram my shoulder against his legs. I feel him fly over me and keep going. The place isn’t packed, but the thin crowd is screaming now.
It’s a breakaway, suckers.
I skate like the wind. The goalie shifts left and right, trying to anticipate my movements. I lock eyes with the dude. The panic I see in them tells me I’ve already scored. I swing my stick wide. The goalie leaves a big hole on the top shelf. Faster than he can blink, I swing again and snipe a slapshot that makes the net slide back.
The buzzing sound makes this sham of a game worth it.
“Nothing but respect for my captain!” Nate comes in for a high five, and I give him a face wash instead.
“Get your head in the game.” The way I snap makes me sound a lot like Coach. “If you have to leave your guts all over the ice to win this game, do it.”
“Aye, aye.”
I end up scoring a hat trick in the last five minutes of the game. Which, on the one hand, will look great on my stats, but on the other is embarrassing.
“That was the worst game I’ve seen in my life.” Coach Green makes sure to tell us how he feels, huh? “Everyone was slow and unfocused. We only made it through because Cassiano wasn’t suffering from a hangover like the rest of you zombies.”
“But we can’t be a team that revolves around a single player.” Spittle flies out of Coach’s mouth as he attempts to scream. We can tell he’s an erupting volcano, what with the protruding neck veins and the red face, but his voice comes out as a whisper. “Especially not when we face the Bulldogs after Thanksgiving.”
If I didn’t already feel like garbage, that reminder sends me into a pit. The silver lining is that I’ll have another chance to get back at my nephew. And I’ll probably need it, after seeing his face again during Thanksgiving.
“Do you think you’ll all get your shit together by then?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“You better. Otherwise, I’m making you do burpees around the entire campus perimeter.”
Something in his face tells me he’s not bluffing. We’re all absolutely screwed if the next game is a mess like this.
