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My guys crowd me in quick celebration, but I make sure to point down the ice to Hugo, so he knows that was for him.
The period ends without any more scoring. Coach stands at the door of the locker room as we file in.
“Anything I need to know?”
“He’s goading me, but I’m keeping it clean, Coach.” Hopefully, I can keep that up. We’ll see.
Coach only raises a brow, following me in. He knows it all, which means he knows how easily this can all turn to shit.
That’s exactly what happens in the third period. They’re down by two. With over eight minutes left, there is plenty of time but they’re still struggling to get shots on net. Our forecheck is on point, as is our passing. Making it difficult for them to gain control for very long. They’re itching for a fight, a surefire way to get the fans in the seats behind them.
“You were nothing but a life lesson for her, Wylder,” Murphy says, checking me as soon as I get my stick on the puck.
“Yeah, whose bed is she in, asshole?” I slam him into the boards, both of us tussling for the puck as it rattles around our skates.
“She teaching you all the things she learned from me?”
This motherfucker.
“You fucking wish.”
“You’re right, best pussy I’ve ever had,” he says. I send a silent apology to my team and to Coach… and then I throw a forearm to the side of his head. Gloves are dropped, chaos ensues, and I get him down on the ice with a couple good punches in before I’m pulled off him.
“You okay, Wild,” Wallin asks as he skates with me to the box.
“Yeah, but seriously fuck that guy.” He grins wide before retreating to our bench, where Coach stands stoic and staring right at me.
Okay, so I fucked up. Murphy hit back and ended up with his own penalty so at least we’re still even on the ice. Two minutes never feel longer than when they’re penalty minutes and you watch from behind the glass, unable to help your team in any way. It’s more nerve racking when the puck is mostly at your own net for those one hundred twenty seconds. Such is life in the game of hockey though.
With nothing else to do, I catch my breath. And try to remember that Isla isn’t mine and she sure as fuck isn’t Murphy’s and I’m not going to let that chucklefuck back into my head.
When my time is up, I skate back out into the mix. Ignoring everything but the puck and my team. Polski, a winger for Vancouver, makes a bad pass and I’m able to recover the puck. Shooting to Wallin who’s in front of the net and sails right in the five hole for another goal.
Suck on that one, too, Murphy.
“Now, is there anything I need to know,” Coach asks later that night when he finds me with a plate of nachos at the hotel bar with Hugo and Oliver.
“He said something crude about Isla, I couldn’t let that slide.” I’m not fucking apologizing for it. Since the day I met her, I would throw down for her.
“Fair enough,” he says after a minute of silent contemplation. His small smile says he’s pleased, not angry.
“That man still scares the shit out of me,” Oliver says.
“Just don’t lie to him. He appreciates honesty and hard work, you’ll be fine. If you don’t date one of his daughters, anyway.”
“Or have a kid with one,” Hugo adds.
“Doesn’t seem like he hates you, especially after tonight,” Oliver says with a shrug. “He just doesn’t talk to you as much as the rest of us."
“I’ve been relegated to assistant coach’s problem. Which is fine,” I confess. “Schwartz is a good guy.” I’m interrupted by my phone. I sent Isla a text after the game to ask how much Sadie was able to watch before she fell asleep, but she never answered. Hoping it’s her, I pull it out of my pocket, only to be disappointed.
Trina:
Great game, babe!
“I need to make a call,” I tell the guys. Dropping some cash on the table, I rise to leave. “See you in the morning.”
As soon as I’m in my hotel room, I hit her contact.
