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“Both of you, preferably.”
“I don’t have classes, which gives me the day to finish up this paper. I can make it,” she says.
“I can, too,” Damian says.
“Do you want to sit with me again?”
“Yes, a few more games with you lot and maybe I’ll finally understand forechecking and backchecking,” he tells her.
Willa starts an animated description of each, all while using my coffee table as an ice rink. She uses our cell phones and my remotes as skaters. Damian watches with rapt attention. I sit back and enjoy it because every time she leans down to move a ‘player’, her ass is in my face.
The oven finally beeps. Damian stands and picks Willa up over his shoulder.
“Thanks for the lesson, Coach,” he says, slapping her ass playfully as he hauls her to the kitchen. She lifts her head to see me following behind and sends me a big grin. Maybe Damian is right, and I have no idea what’s best for Willa. Maybe this can work, the three of us. Together.
We’re playing Vancouver and we’re down by one as we take the ice for third period. The entire second period we played like we were down a man, constantly in catch up mode. Coach Cole chewed our asses for the first couple of minutes of intermission. We fucking deserved it.
The team’s ready now, though. My stick is freshly taped, Blom had a cup of coffee and took a shit, and the rest of the guys did whatever their routine is. Everyone’s is different, but mostly we all end up discussing what needs to change in the period.
Our forechecking was crap and we made it easy for them to bombard Blom at the net. He did great at stopping them, but everyone gets an amazing shot occasionally.
Cill takes the faceoff, winning it and passing it to Lehtinen on the other side of the ice. I move toward the net as he circles a Vancouver player and shoots. Their goalie gets a pad on it, but it wobbles in front of the net. In front of me. I get a rebound shot that sails just under their goalie’s arm and lands in the back of the net to tie it up.
Cill and Letty skate over to pat my helmet when one of Vancouver’s players moves up behind me.
“How many dicks did you suck in the locker room during break to be able to get that play right?”
“The fuck did you say,” Lehtinen growls.
Cillian pushes me toward our bench, while Olly follows close behind.
“Leave it, Zan. I’ll take care of it.”
“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Wylder.”
The other guys on the bench perk up at the conversation, a couple asking what happened.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Twenty-four,” Lehtinen says. “You get the chance, you fuck that kid up.” His message is met with smiles and a few sticks tapping the floor.
Jesus.
“Don’t get any stupid penalties over it,” Cillian tells me.
“No fucking promises.”
The following minutes are torture. Adrenaline races through my veins, I want to be back on the ice. It might not be the best response, maybe it makes me look more guilty of his accusation. But this is hockey, and we only take so much shit talk before we throw gloves.
That fucking blog post must be making the rounds. There’s no time to stress out about it now though. The game is my only focus and now, even more than before, I want to fucking win it. When my turn comes back around, the asshole isn’t on the ice. I keep my focus on the game, my position, the puck, defending our goalie and net. It’s not until a few shifts later that he and I are on the ice together. Cillian stays in the guy’s orbit as much as possible, making it hard for the kid to get anything done. But then Letty intercepts the puck and takes it down to Vancouver’s zone. He doesn’t have a clear shot, so he passes it to Cill along the boards. The shit talker is there though, circling him like a shark. I can hear them exchanging words, but I don’t know what’s being said. Cillian passes it back to Lehtinen, and within seconds, Vancouver’s player crashes into Cill, causing my teammate’s head to slam into the ice.
Motherfucker.
The whistle blows at the penalty, but I ignore that in favor of taking the guy to the ice. He sees me coming, knows what’s about to happen. Instead of taking the lick like a good boy, he drops gloves. I follow suit and then nail him with a right hook to the jaw. He goes down, and I follow, landing on the guy as we continue to trade punches until the officials and a few teammates pull us off each other.
You don’t grow up with a drunk dad without learning how to fight. I may not be the biggest guy in the league, but I can take a hit almost as well as I can toss them out.
Of course, I get sent to the box, but it’s worth it. He’s bleeding from a cut or two on his face, red streaming down into his eye.
