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He glares at me through his helmet, then jerks his head toward where Caspian has the puck and is moving toward the Sentinel’s goalie. He tosses it to Maddox who shoots it past the goalie.
Cheers erupt. Some of the burning in my chest subsides.
I glide back to the center to face off with Douchecanoe. The referee drops the puck, and before it even hits the ice, I’m on him. This time, I body check Douchecanoe with such force, he loses his stick. Jagger glides by, sending it flying, then Maddox, then Enzo, until it hits the board.
I rejoin my team, this time, snatching the puck from Caleb and shooting the goal. Douchecanoe has to head to the bench to get a new stick, and when we face-off the third time, he’s prepared. Finally. I need more of a challenge.
This time, he bodychecks my hip. I hit his shoulder, we jostle, then I lean my full weight into his torso, and he loses his footing and overbalances on the ice. Once more, he loses his stick, and it’s swept away in the melee. I bare my teeth at him, not missing the rage in his features, before racing off to support my team. Enzo shoots the goal, and the whistle blows for the end of the period.
I glance around, until I spot her and glide over to the plexiglass above the boards. I place my hand on the glass, and the crowd around us yells its support. Gio flushes, looking like she’s about to run away. I tip up my chin and drag my gaze down to the jersey she’s wearing, which has my number. When I look at her face again, her flush deepens. Even across the distance, I sense the shiver that grips her. She walks forward and places her palm on the glass over mine. The crowd rises to their feet in the stands behind her, camera flashes going off. I bring my glove-covered palm to my chest. Gio’s chin trembles. I shake my head, and she manages to smile, then I turn and glide off the ice.
When I meet fuckface at the next face-off, it’s clear, he’s better prepared. We bodycheck each other, neither of us giving way, while the puck is swept away. I grapple with him for a second, then another. He breaks free, hooks his stick around my leg and tugs. I stumble back. The referee blows his whistle, indicating a minor penalty. Fuckface grins, then glides off the ice.
He’s replaced by another player, and the game continues. Finn’s unable to save the next two goals, and by the time the whistle blows for the end of the second period, we’re two goals each. In the dressing room, the mood is tense. I rehydrate, stretch, then turn to my team. "I’m not sorry I’m gunning for Captain Fuckface, and I promise, I will not let the team lose."
Caspian frowns at me. "You should have never become captain. Your play so far shows where your priorities lie."
"My priorities lie with my fiancée," I growl.
"And that’s what you get for having someone with experience lead us." He snickers. "Now, if I were the captain, I’d put the game before anything else."
"Which is why you have a ways to go before you become captain," Edward interrupts. He walks over, dressed in his usual dark suit, and plants his hands on his hips. "What you do off-ice affects how you perform in there." He stabs his thumb in the direction of the rink.
"Exactly what I’m saying," Caspian begins, but Edward cuts him off.
"And when you’re obsessed with the game to the exclusion of everything else, your performance is lopsided. It makes you—"
"Focused?" Caspian sneers
"Blinkered," Edward says in a firm voice. "You’re too focused on the end result, to the extent that you’d sacrifice anything to get to your goal."
"Duh?" Caspian looks at Edward with a frown on his face.
"You need a balance, some perspective, the ability to look at the big picture which is what Rick"—he jerks his chin in my direction—"brings to his role."
Caspian’s features harden. "And that’s why you overlooked that he’s engaged to our PR manager? A fact that—"
"Is unorthodox but which has generated positive publicity for the Ice Kings and put us in the running as a possible contender for the League, which your shoddy performance in today’s game might unravel." Edward lowers his chin. "You have a burning desire to excel, Prick. That’s your competitive edge, but it’s going to be your undoing when you take it to the extreme.”
"That fucking call sign." Caspian glowers at me.
I shrug. I call it as I see it, and that motherfucker is a prick whose ego is bigger than mine, andthat’ssaying something.
"Combined with Rick’s insights and expertise and the skill of the remaining team members, we have a chance of making it through to the finals—assuming the lot of you pull your heads out of your arses and focus on the prize."
* * *
The second period goes better. We score two goals, the Sentinels score none. I take the opportunity to body check the fuckface, but in a way that doesn’t get me banned—not that I give a fuck about it, but I owe it to my teammates to keep my head in the game, and more importantly, keep the team in the game. I’m also flagging. I wouldn’t ever admit it aloud, but the truth is, I feel it as I limp off the ice. I make sure to meet her gaze, but don't going up to the plexiglass this time, but only because I need to do this much for my teammates.
And fuck, if that doesn’t twist my heart. Because when it comes down to it, I’d choose her over the game any day, and it wasn’t meant to happen this way. But when I saw his hands on her and noticed the anguish on her face, something in me changed. I knew then, she's more important than the game, and that revelation took me by surprise.
I’m still dealing with it, still unsure what to make of it. I gave into that feeling when I skated over to her earlier, and much as I want to do that now, my guilt over the feelings I developed for her, along with Edward’s words ringing in my ears, ensured I continued off the ice after a final glance.
The intermission goes quickly, especially because I focus on stretching out the aches and pains, and chugging down a sports drink. Finn and Caspian spend the time in a game of who can do more push-ups, and while I’m tempted to join them, I’m not stupid enough to do so. Even a few years ago, I’d have been leading them in the race, but now, I know when to conserve my energy and when to compete. And while I’m confident I can outdo the two upstarts, it’s more important I go out and finish this game on a high.
We head back to the ice. I face-off with Arsemonger, the puck drops, and he moves first. He raises his stick and hits me on my shoulder. Pain rips up my arm, but I shake it off. Everything in me wants to lower my head and butt him, but if I did that, I’d face a match penalty which would cripple my team. That wouldn’t help any of us, and definitely not Gio, who’d have a PR disaster on her hands. I content myself with tripping the douche and slashing at his shoulder when he falls as I glide off.
I catch the puck from Caspian, throw it to Jagger, who shoots it home. The home audience boos; our supporters in the audience cheer. I glide back to the center where Arsemonger is back on his feet. Neither of us were charged with a penalty, an oversight which the audience is not happy about. It also means the next time I indulge in unsportsmanlike behavior, I’m going to be sent off the ice.
