I shouldn’t have time right now to stroll down memory lane to the days of twin-switch. I should be focused on keeping the biscuit the hell out of my basket. Not a euphemism.
You know what really sucks? Watching the fucking game you were born to play from the sidelines. We’re about to start the third, and as exciting as the game is, it’s nothing compared to experiencing it, living it, breathing it.
I’m trying to keep my shit together, but occasional growls are escaping me. I’m big fucking mad. We’re one up as the puck hits the ice at the start of the third period. Our goalie, Hayes Parker, isn’t bad—in fact, he’s pretty damn good. He’d be a great starting netminder if the coaching staff hadn’t procured a hot-shot-rookie who’s gathering fucking dust on the bench.
An outskater for the Storm lines up the shot, and a train wreck unfolds on the ice. Fellow Raccoon, Scott Raine’s face meets what has to be a 90mph slap shot and he goes down in a spray of blood and howling.
He’s not on the ice for long before help makes its way out to him, but blood gushes from the wound on his face, turning the ice around him into a scene from a fucking horror film.
It takes them a few minutes to get him on his feet and the crowd erupts into cheers and applause. The silence around the rink is always touching when a player gets injured. It’s as though no one dares to breathe until the injured player has been proclaimed okay.
It doesn’t matter whether the player is loved or loathed, whether they play for the home team or the away team, the reaction from every crowd is the same. One of our own is down.
It looks like it hit below his bottom lip, and no matter what damage the puck has caused, Raine will be back on the ice for training tomorrow. Apollo lost a tooth during a game when he was in high school. He skated to the bench, spat it out, and went out and scored two goals and three assists like the badass he is.
I contemplate singing out loud, or swinging my legs back and forth on the bench until someone notices me. This sucks. Like really sucks. It sucks so hard I want to scream.
Not even letting my thoughts drive to the delicious pink haired pixie from the salon can calm the raging fire in my belly. What is she up to? I don’t get the impression she’s a sports loving kinda girl, but I can’t fight the need to scan the crowd. Maybe she’s watching my ass on the bench.
The game ends and our backup maintains his shut out, which is a mixed bag of feelings for me. On one hand we won, so yay, but on the other, Parker faced some tough saves, and he did pretty damn good even if it hurts for me to admit it.
I don’t need Coach realizing that he’s the better netminder and keeping me on the bench indefinitely. The benefit of us both being freshmen is that we both have to prove ourselves to earn and keep the top slot. I guess I don’t have to be replaced, they just don't have to keep me.
Fuck. The thought alone curdles my stomach. I’d lose my mind.
Raine’s back in the locker room by the time we make it off the ice. He lost two teeth, needed twenty-three stitches to repair the damage to his face, and as suspected, he plans to take to the ice tomorrow for practice. Like I said, badass. He’s mostly pissed that he missed the end of the game.
I can relate, man. I can relate.
I’ve never let myself be second best at anything. Which is why I had to quit using. It gave me the confidence to think I was on top of my game, while dragging me into the depths of obscurity.
And as my team celebrates another goaltender’s win, it washes over me. Feels a lot like failure.
And de la Peñas don’t do failure.
As expected, Papá has tried to call a number of times. He’s left three voicemails, each picking up speed and intensity, like a tropical storm becoming a hurricane. He’s watched the game, he saw me on the bench instead of between the pipes, and yet he’s pissed at me for not being at his beck and call to pick up the goddamn phone when he called.
What the fuck does he expect me to do? Say, “Oh, I’m sorry, Coach, but I need to go take a call from my daddy?”
I snort. Right. Like that would go down well.
I’m already on Papá’s shit list, so I ignore the flashing screen, tuck the phone into my bag and head home to work on teaching Bacon how to play goalie between the pipes. He’s getting better at it. For the first while he kinda stood staring at the puck as it sailed toward him. Last night he sniffed it. It’s progress.
They say potbellied pigs are super smart, smarter than dogs, so I have no doubts that our team mascot is going to take over the world someday. But for now, we’re starting with progressing from sniffing pucks, to stopping them.
I want to tell the guys about it, but I’m irrationally shaken by the fact I’m riding the pine. What if Coach wants to replace me?
No point in telling the guys I got a mascot for a team that may not even be mine for long.
I’ve gone off the doomsday cliff. I’m full of worst-case scenarios. My mood is as sour as my stomach, but I can’t help it. Hockey is my life. I can’t lose it. And not only because the headache from Papá would be insufferable either.
I don’t take the guys up on the invite to go to The Den. Instead, my bad mood and I head home to play with my pig. And for once, that’s not even a euphemism.
CHAPTER8
Eloise
Ares’s hot breath tickles my cheek as his splayed hand glides over my stomach, passing my belly button. Lower. Lower. I suck in a breath. Lower. Arching my back, I whimper. He nips at my ear, the bite of pain barely registering through the desperate aching need raging through my body.
