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Skate.Thu-thump.Skate.Thu-thump.
Markov gets chippy with Freddy and I slam into him, knocking him on his ass. Freddy breaks free and steals the puck. He passes to a defenseman, who knocks it to Pasha. Pasha fakes, then kicks it out, past the massive goalie into the goal.
The goal horn sounds and we circle around Pasha.
The rhythm resumes. Markov catches me from behind and I fly into the boards, landing against my left shoulder. It hurts like a bitch. I’ll have a bruise tomorrow. But it just makes me madder. I hear nothing beyond the blood rushing between my ears and the scrape of my blades on ice.
As I’m circling back around, looking for the asshole wearing number 27, Boston’s forward gets a good look and shoots the puck into the back of our net.
We’re tied again. Freddy rounds up and speaks, firing everyone up. Two minutes left in the third period and it’s going to be a beast to get this done. I settle back into the frenetic rhythm, keeping pace with Markov.
Swish.Thu-thump. Swish.Thu-thump.
Freddy breaks away with the puck, dribbling it as he flies between defenders. His puck handling is among the best in the league and everyone knows it. Unless something even crazier in the world of sports happens tonight, that move is going to land him at the top of the top ten list on SportsCenter tonight. Inexplicably, he kicks it back to our other forward. Two defenders charge down on him, and he flicks the puck to me. I catch it, getting the look. I take the shot, and it flies between the goalie’s pads, knocking around in the back of the net.
The siren goes off as the puck beats the buzzer. My teammates swarm me, knocking me on the back and screaming in my face. I’m starting to hear their voices, knowing the game is over. But as I look around, I don’t see Freddy.
The arena grows quieter and I push through the throng of my teammates. Freddy is down, writhing on the ice. Markov stands over him, helmet off. Medics get there the same time I do, asking questions Freddy can’t find the words to answer. He’s clutching his leg, which even through all the pads I can tell is just wrong. A leg doesn’t bend that way.
I lose my gloves and helmet as I squat on the ice next to him. I help remove his gloves and squeeze his hand as a medic pushes a large syringe between his cut uniform and pads. I catch only a fleeting glimpse of his leg and I swear I see white. Bone white.
Freddy relaxes ever so slightly. He blinks up at me.
“Did you score?” he asks. Leave it to our star wing to ask if his enforcer bothered to score while he got his leg snapped in two.
“Yeah,” I say, getting out the first words I’ve spoken in hours. “We won.”
He grits his teeth into a forced grin as his eyelids flutter under whatever they’ve pumped into his system. The paramedics lift him onto a stretcher.
“I fucked it all up, didn’t I?” Freddy asks as I stand with the stretcher.
He’s not talking about the game anymore. He’s talking about the bone poking out of his fucking leg, the fact that it was such a bad break they had to sedate him on the ice.
He’s talking about the fact that because I lost sight of the shithole defender, his career may be over.
“No,” I say. “You didn’t fuck it up.”
Freddy frowns, and they push him off the ice. He’ll go straight to OHSU and I’ll drive over as soon as I’m out of my pads.
I look up and find Markov, helmet off, watching me.
“Sorry about your friend.”
Fury and resignation course through me, tensing my shoulders. I nod, just once. He sighs and scratches the side of his nose as two of his teammates nudge him toward their locker room.
“See you next time,” he says with concession, tilting his chin.
And that’s that. I know the score. I’ll be fighting the next time we play Boston, and it’ll be brutal. We’ll be playing for so much more than a few points. I sigh as the noises of the arena flood back into my periphery and Pasha claps me on the back.
“Come on,” he says. “Get showered so you don’t stink up the ER.”
“Yeah, fine,” I say, letting him lead me off the ice. Of course I’ll go check up on my teammate after I got distracted and possibly fucked up his career. The least I can do is shower first.
3
faye
“Your phone is buzzing,”Aly says as I’m pulling on some fuzzy socks. Who am I kidding? I’m not going out tonight. I’m going full-on cat lady.
