Page 77 of King of the Crease

“I am underwater,” Des pants. “I ingested cheap liquor!”

On their next shift, Tanner actually gets a clean breakout and feeds Des across the slot—prime scoring chance, the kind Des buries in his sleep. He fans on it completely. Just whiffs. The puck slides past his stick like it’s embarrassed for him. Des stares at his blade like it personally betrayed him.

Griffin is normally the steadiest guy on the blue line—calm clears, smart positioning, the human equivalent of a safety net. Today he looks like his internal GPS is buffering. He pinches at the wrong moment and gets caught flat-footed when the puck slides past him, forcing a scrambling back-check that’s more enthusiastic than effective. On the next rush, he winds up for a confident slap shot from the point and instead sends a sad little dribbler that doesn’t even make it through traffic.

The Blades aren’t looking too hot either. They wobble on their skates and move at a slower, lethargic pace. They get two shots on Nick at goal and miss both by a mile.

From the crease, Nick calls out, voice steady. “We’re all right. Reset.”

He’s manly and confident behind goal, but that only makes me remember him bouncing on my cock earlier this morning, shaking like he was possessed with the Holy Spirit.

This shameful first period is almost done. By sheer luck, Des and Tanner manage to score a goal. Bill lines up for a face-off against Jack at center ice.

Jack looks worse than we do. His helmet’s slightly crooked. His skin has that faint greenish tint where you can feel the alcohol and Taco Bell seeping through his pores.

Right before the ref drops the puck, Jack bends over, hands on his knees.

I think he’s catching his breath.

He is not catching his breath.

There’s a horrible, unmistakable retching sound. The entire rink goes silent.

Jack rips off his mask and throws up on the center line, his projectile vomit splatting across Bill’s skates and hockey pants.

And here I thought I was the only guy who needed a poncho today.

There’s a collective gasp from the stands. Someone yells, “NICE!”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bill yells, dropping his stick ready to throw down but…how do you throw down against a player puking his guts out?

The ref backs away like the ice has personally betrayed him. I bet the ref has seen a lot in his days, but definitely not this.

Jack straightens slowly, wipes his mouth with the back of his glove, and says, “I’m totally fine, Dude.”

Bill rips off his mask. “Don’t. Call. Me. Dude.” He shoves Jack, which only makes him throw up again.

“Get off him, Bill!” Griffin charges at our captain. But once he gets to the vomit streaked across Bill’s uniform, it causes him to retch as well. Griffin races to the penalty box where he proceeds to throw up.

“What the hell is going on?” Marcy barges from the bleachers onto the ice to scope out the scene. The guys on the ice are reduced to quivering schoolboys in her presence.

Nick, bless him, is trying so hard not to laugh. I can see his shoulders shaking from across the rink.

The refs huddle with Marcy. There’s a lot of pointing. One of them looks like he’s reconsidering his life choices.

After a few minutes, they skate over.

“Game’s canceled,” the head ref announces. “Ice crew can’t safely clear that before it soaks in.”

Bill stares at the ceiling, most likely cursing everyone and everything involved with that bar crawl.

Des bends over, hands on his knees. “I can’t believe we lost to vomit.”

“Indoor voices, Des.” Tanner pats his back.

24

NICK