Page 12 of Hockey Nanny

The two of us slid into position like we’d done a hundred times before. He played right, I played left, and Gage barreled down the center between us. It was a combination that worked better than anyone could have predicted, and the New Jersey Devils didn’t stand a chance.

Called it twins’ intuition, but Dawson and I worked best when we were mirroring each other, operating with a synchronicity that had every other player outmatched. It took only a moment of eye contact, and it was like we could read each other’s minds. So we flowed, handling passes, pivots, and shots like a singular organism.

Midway through the second period, the puck slid toward Dawson, and I watched him curl around a defender, stick handling with that same cool, lethal intensity he always carried on the ice. I took the pass, skated hard along the boards, and snapped a shot past the goalie. I could see the Devils seething in their skates and offered a shit-eating grin for their efforts.

Gage was out there too, a hurricane in his own right. Sure, the guy had a habit of visibly fuming whenever someone got in his way, but he had his moments of brilliance, throwing all that muscle and fury where it counted (not that I would ever pay him a compliment to his face).

We kept the puck moving fast, with swift passes between Dawson and me that would have had me singing had I had a moment to catch my breath. Then Gage exploded past the blue line, juking left and right, and landing the perfect shot. That was how it went. Gage’s violence to complement Dawson's pragmatic calls. And me, the speedy assurance. When the strategy worked, it was devastating.

At some point, a Jersey Devil sent the puck out of bounds, and during the stoppage, I glanced up at the stands, scanning the booths for Carissa and Henry. Henry’s foam finger was flailing wildly, still facing the wrong way, but the kid couldn’t have cared less. He had his eyes trained on Dawson, hopping up and down like he’d eaten nothing but candy all morning. Carissa sat beside him, clearly confused as to what the hell was going on but seemingly enjoying herself, regardless.

I caught her eye and offered a wave, then had to examine the little thrill that traveled through me when she smiled and waved back. Hell, the woman was cute, and it didn’t help that she knew how to use it to toy with me. I was into her; I had to admit, though that came as no surprise to anyone.

When Carissa’s gaze traveled past me, my eyes flicked to Dawson, who was already getting into position. Though his head was still in the game, his eyes were fixed on the stands, and he was staring at Carissa like he didn’t quite know what to make of her. I mashed my stick against the ice, listening to the din of the stadium, muffled slightly beneath the helmet.

So Dawson was into her, too. Nowthatwas the surprise of the century. Not that my brother would ever admit it. Dawson handled intimate relationships like a hand on a hot stove. He pulled back the moment someone turned up the heat. A nudge from my teammate pulled me out of my head, and I hurried to get into position, offering a final wave to Henry and a wink in Carissa’s direction.

The rest of the game went off without a hitch, and we had the win in the bag with seconds to spare. Gage kept his stick glued to the ice, bullying his way through the neutral zone. A Devils defenseman tried to step up and got flattened for his trouble, skidding on his ass while the crowd roared its approval. Gagedidn’t even spare the poor guy a glance; he dished the puck right back to Dawson coming up on the right wing.

Dawson took it in stride, skating wide and forcing the goalie to track him. Two defenders collapsed on him with the brutal force of a brick wall, but that was a rookie mistake. I was already flying down the left, timing my entry perfectly. An ex-girlfriend once told me I always knew how to make an entrance, and you best believe she was right. Dawson glanced up once, saw me in all my speeding glory, and threaded a pass clean across the slot.

I wound up and ripped it, wishing only for a snapshot of that glorious swing, and sent the puck screaming past the goalie’s head. Top shelf.

The red light flashed, the horn blared, and the arena erupted. I had only a moment to rip my helmet off before the full weight of the Golden Knights team came crashing down on top of me. Gage hooked a beefy arm around my neck, damn near choking me in the process (his own unique take on a pat on the back).

Dawson came skating up last, cool and collected as always in the presence of adoring fans and butt-hurt rival teams. He tapped his stick against mine in quiet celebration. He wasn’t looking at me.

I followed his gaze back up to the stands, where Carissa was on her feet, cheeks flushed pink in the cold, and cheering along with the rest of the audience. Henry was bouncing beside her, both of them clearly screaming their lungs out. I glanced back at my brother and caught him smiling, like there were not a few hundred people watching him; only two.

I sidled closer to murmur in his ear, some advice only he could hear. “The game might be over, but it’s not too late to shoot your shot.”

Dawson lifted a hand to wave at Henry, but his eyes flitted back to Carissa. “I could say the same to you.”

“It’s not a competition.” I shrugged, pumping one arm up to join in the celebration. “Why don’t we just agree that whatever happens, happens?”

“Sure,” Dawson lowered his hand and looked at me, serious as a heart attack, like usual. “But Henry and the hockey season must come first.”

“Of course.” I skated after him as he turned to rejoin the rest of the team, but I spared one last glance up at the stands. A part of me had to wonder if either one of us could stick to that promise.

6

~

Carissa

The wonderful thing about flying miles above the world was that it made all of your problems seem small by comparison.

After the game, and leaving Henry in the care of three hockey stars hopped up on adrenaline after their recent win, I dipped out of the house for the evening to visit my dad. After a long drive and an even longer catch-up, we were up in his chopper, soaring over the Las Vegas strip while the sun dipped low on the horizon. The city was a riot of neon lights, like someone had scattered glitter across the desert.

My father handled the controls with the comfort of a veteran, one hand relaxed on his knee while the other guided the whirlybird steady across the sky. Watching him fly had always been inspiring. Ever since I was little, I wanted to be capable of the same effortless grace, capable of flying on my own one day.

“So,” he spoke to me through the headset, flashing a grin under his graying mustache. “You ready for a quiz?”

I groaned and dropped my head back. “I came to clear my head. I didn’t think there’d be a test.”

“You’re the one who insisted that I grill you on this, kiddo.” The old man’s chuckle was staticky through the headset. “Walk me through some emergency procedures. What do I do if my engine flames out at altitude?”

I cursed the me from a few weeks ago, who refused to ever give herself a break. “Fine. You would want to lower the collective, maintain your rotor RPM, and pick a landing site…” I bit my lip as my mind kicked back into gear. “Preferably into the wind.”