He stifled a sob by cramming a forkful of cheese and potato into his mouth.
“Whenever you’re ready, I’d like to see your art. It’s not my thing, and I’ll probably say all the wrong things, but I want to try to support you, Lincoln.”
Lincoln nodded. Was he ready for his father to see inside his life? He’d sketched some pictures of his dad on the ice after he’d retired from playing professionally. Maybe he’d get one framed as a gift for his birthday and see how things went.
Dad wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “So, tell me about this girl of yours.”
***
Linc had apologized to Will and their coach. He’d gone for an eight mile run and bossed the hell out of their morning practice. He’d eaten his pre-game meal of chicken and pasta, and he was ready to face the back-to-back games against Alabama and Michigan. If only mending a broken heart was so easy.
“You ready?” Russ elbowed him as they stepped off the ice after warm up.
He nodded. “Sorry, man. I know I’ve been all-the-way fucked in the head this week.”
Russell’s glove hit him across the side of the head before he could blink. “Shut up, it’s what we’re here for. I’m just glad your dad was able to get your stinky ass out of that cesspit before we had to call animal control.”
He winked. “You know I normally wouldn’t have pushed, but we need to win these games. We’re so close to making the playoffs, I can almost feel that itchy-as-fuck playoff beard.”
Linc chuckled. “Then let’s make the playoffs.” He offered his glove, which Russ fist bumped with his own.
“Damn straight.”
***
The Zambonis were done with the ice, the anthem had been sung and the crowd was boisterous. The atmosphere around the rink crackled with excitement… and hope. Playoffs meant more work, more practice, and muscle aches in places he didn’t realize muscles existed, but it was his favorite kind of hockey, and he’d be damned if they were going to lose these games.
Somehow being free of his father’s expectations made him want it just a little more.
“Saw your girl in the stands, Scottie. I can see why you got all bent out of shape. She’s hot.” Jeremy Lewis stopped beside him, primed for the opening puck drop.
His girl? Cleo was here?
Austin won the faceoff and passed it to Finn, who cradled it up the wing. Linc scanned the crowd. Foam fingers and pennants waved in all directions, but the blur of faces wasn’t easy to pick through. Someone nudged him.
“Looking for her now, aren’t ya?”
Linc shook his head. “Not letting you fuck with me, Jer. You’re just trying to get under my skin.”
The whistle blew for icing. Jeremy popped his mouth guard out and chewed it around a smug grin. He shrugged, confident, nonchalant, and irritating as hell. “If you say so.”
Linc shook his head, attempting to clear the Cleo-thoughts from his mind. He was there to play, not be manipulated into losing a shot at the playoffs by Jeremy-smug-fuck-Lewis who had resorted to distractions ‘cause he knew the Pirates was the stronger team.
Some people would do anything for the win, and Linc wasn’t letting them have it easily.
***
Two periods down, the game was tied. Linc had missed a backdoor goal that would have put the Pirates ahead. Anger fizzled through his bones as he pursued every single puck of the shift. ‘Bama’s goalie was tired – he was moving further out of his crease than he needed to and his passes had grown sloppy.
Lincoln was going to get the damn goal back. Jeremy’s best friend, AJ, had been stuck to Linc’s heels like stink on shit. Every time Linc moved, there he was, relentlessly chipping at him, goading him into a penalty. But Linc wanted that goal back.
Every time his ass hit the bench, he scanned the crowd, but no matter how many times he looked, he couldn’t see Cleo. Jeremy had to be fucking with him, which only served to make Linc madder.
Sometimes in hockey, everything aligned – fluke, luck, talent, Mercury not being in retrograde. Whatever puzzle pieces fell into place made something almost magic happen. He needed one of those moments.
Excitement thrummed in his veins as he skated up the ice toward Alabama’s goal. There was less than ninety seconds on the clock, not a lot of time to make a difference. Despite the weariness seeping its way into Linc’s thighs and arms, he wasn’t going to give up until the last buzzer sounded.
Russ had the puck back at the blue line, the defensive yin to Linc’s offensive yang. He shot it to Finn, who shouldered past a white shirted Charger toward the net. The goalie moved out to meet him, leaving the backdoor wide open once again. Linc smacked his stick on the ice, calling for the puck. He met Finn’s eyes, noting the subtle nod from his teammate.
