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I’m restless, waiting for my turn to get on the ice. I don’t get as much play yet because I’m still getting used to the team and learning how they interact with each other. It drives me crazy. Waters is in a bad mood with the score being the way it is, and the opposition is chippy, making it difficult to keep the puck in play. The refs are lax. It’s pissing me off.
Waters ends up getting two minutes for tripping, which gets me off the bench. They switch out a wing for me, and I fly down the ice, ready to take back the puck. I have an advantage tonight. We’re playing the team I was traded from in the spring. I know most of the players and how they move. Some of them might be my friends, but in terms of the game and winning, it doesn’t make a difference.
I nab the puck from their center, skating wide. I weave through players, my objective clear: get the puck into New York’s net. I scan for players close to me. Westinghouse is open and looking for a pass; I send the puck sailing in his direction just before New York tries to steal it. Picking up speed, I make my way toward the goalie, keeping an eye on the puck. Skating around behind the net, Westinghouse trades off right before he takes a hit. I skate around the guy looking to drop me, kiss the puck with my blade, and send it sailing between the goalie’s skates.
Scoring against my old team is a fantastic feeling, especially with us being down a player on account of Waters’ penalty. Westinghouse and I tap gloves and set up for the next play. I get back pats along the way. I can’t keep the grin contained as I face off against my old captain. Nothing beats the high of scoring a goal.
This is the rush I live for, the feeling that I’m invincible. The whistle blows, and the puck drops. I slap it away from NY’s center. Westinghouse is on it. He’s an awesome wingman. New York gets control, but Miller owns defense, keeping the puck away from our goal.
Waters is back on the ice once his penalty is over, and I’m on the bench, but I’m okay with that. I’ve done my part. We’re tied, and we’ve got three minutes left in the game. Waters is a bulldozer out there. He’s on a rampage, cutting down the ice with the puck, his focus singular. He fakes out the other team, his skating skills so refined he can trip them up without even touching them. The puck sails into the net again with only fifteen seconds left in the game. And we’ve won. There’s no coming back for New York.
The energy is manic in the locker room. There’s a shitton of excitement and lots of approval from my teammates. We hit the bar afterward to celebrate the win and eat. The bunnies are all over the place, looking for hook-ups. I take the spot beside Miller.
I’m still waiting on Lily to call me back, so I’m not all that inclined to do the bunny thing. I could definitely use the release, though. I’m edgy and pent up as fuck. I haven’t had sex since the engagement party. Normally I wouldn’t be opposed to a hook-up after such a long dry run—especially since Lily hasn’t messaged in a couple of days—but with her being Sunny’s close friend, I need to be sensitive about it.
Lance pulls an empty chair up beside me, turns it around, and drops into it. He looks past Miller to Westinghouse and Waters. “What’re you doing here with all the pussy-whipped bitches?” he asks me.
“Classy, Romero.” Westinghouse gives him the eye and takes a swig from his beer.
“There’ve been some interesting rumors floating around out there about you since my engagement party,” Waters says.
“Oh, yeah?” Lance spins the coaster on the table.
“You might want to watch yourself a little better,” Waters adds.
Lance frowns. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“If you say so.” Waters shrugs. “But if Coach finds out, best-case scenario is you being benched. Worst case you end up traded. That’d be a real shame, considering—ego aside—you’re a good player.” He downs his beer and sets the bottle on the table. “I’m gonna call it a night.”
Westinghouse leaves his beer half-full, pushes back his chair, and nods to us. “See you on the bus.”
Lance waits until they’re gone before he turns to us. “Who the fuck told Waters?”
“Told him what?” I lean back in my chair and glance at Miller, who’s checking his phone for the seventy-fifth time.
He looks up and frowns. “Are you talking about whatever’s going on with you and Tash?”
“Yeah, man. Did you say something?” His accent comes out. Usually the vague hint of Scottish brogue is undetectable, apart from when he’s upset about something.
