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I think she read that somewhere in a biography of a retired player, but it always stuck with me. I always give every game one hundred percent of my focus and determination because I don't want to disappoint the fans.
We're playing Detroit tonight, and the first two periods fly by. We can't seem to put the puck in the net, and the fans are getting antsy to see a goal. We're down one-nothing, and there's no reason we shouldn't already have two or three goals on the board, except the Roadrunner's goalie has a hot hand. Coach gives one of his motivational speeches and revs us up for the final period of a game we should be winning. Luke hit a post on the power play and Logan McLeod—nicknamed Lego—hit the crossbar just before the buzzer went to end the second. It's a tight game.
The ref drops the puck, and I win the draw. I'm on a line with Erik Bammer and James Pebbles, appropriately called the Pebbles and BamBam line. I fit in seamlessly. Playing with this team feels natural, and we already have chemistry forming.
Luke stick handles the puck behind our net, waiting for our forwards to get into position. The Detroit forecheckers take the bait and try to force the play, skating into our zone. I glide past the red line as Luke saucers me a stretch pass that I cradle perfectly. I skate tight to the d-man and dangle the puck between his legs, deking around him. Then, it's just the goalie and me. I lift my leg and stick, making him think I'm going to shoot the puck. When he goes down, I curl-and-drag the puck to my right, effortlessly backhanding it into the net.
The lamp lights red, and the crowd erupts. The guys throw their arms up in celebration as we tie the game.
"Nice moves, Monk," Luke laughs, using my old nickname, and I know by the end of the week, everyone will be using the moniker. Hockey nicknames tend to follow you around. We all have them. Some of which make no sense at all, and others we have no idea the origins of.
The rest of the game goes by quickly. I'm hungry for the win to prove to everyone I belong here; that I'm worth the assets they gave up in the trade. The buzzer sounds, ending regulation time with us tied one-one, and three-on-three overtime starts with me, Luke, and Chase Wilder on the ice.
The beauty of overtime is how much ice there is to skate on; with only three players for each team on the ice, the game opens up. It's fast and hectic end-to-end action. Detroit speeds down into our zone, cycling the puck. I'm trying to read the play as a Detroit forward backhands a pass to the point. A shot whistles by me, and Rue kicks the puck away with his left pad. The rebound shoots out to me, sending Chase and me breaking out two-on-one. I carry the puck into the zone, waiting for the goalie and d-man to commit. The goalie squares up to me just as the defenceman reaches out to poke-check the puck off my stick. Instead of shooting, I slide a pass over to Wilder, who taps the puck into a wide-open net.
The arena explodes into cheers as all the players from our bench flood onto the ice. Fuck, I love this game. There's nothing more exhilarating than having twenty-thousand people go crazy because a frozen rubber disk hits the back of the mesh.
"Fuck yeah, Monk-man," Chase yells over the crowd, tapping my helmet with his gloved hands before giving me a massive bro-hug. "You're a fucking superstar!"
After the game, the media are waiting for me. Em and Holly hustle reporters in and out of the dressing room for scrums. The ladies try to move things along quickly because everyone wants to get out of here and go home. We leave on a four-day road trip tomorrow and need the rest.
Finally, the arena starts to empty. Em is still here, and I want to kiss her so badly that it feels like my skin is buzzing.
"Gunner," the last reporter in the room yells. I turn and nod, letting him know to go ahead and ask his question.
"What do you make of the rumours about Tyra Price?"
Both Em and I frown. It's not a hockey question, and I haven't heard any rumours.
"What rumours?" I say cautiously.
"Reports are saying she's seeing a woman. Is it true?"
The blood drains from my face as Em walks over to the reporter, ready to kick him out of the locker room.
"Tyra and I are still good friends," I start. I'm not exactly sure what to say, but my first instinct is to protect my friend. Her personal life isn't anyone's business, and when she's ready to come out, she will. "We were together for two years, and as much as I would like to say she dumped me because she's not interested in men, I can't. Tyra and I couldn't keep our hands off each other. No one's that good of an actress."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Em recoil before composing herself. I can see the hurt in her eyes, and I want to kick myself for being so thoughtless. But Tyra is my friend, and I can't throw her under the bus. I want to protect her for as long as she needs me to. Soon, everyone in the locker room is gone except for Luke and me, and he looks like he wants to punch me in the throat.
He gets up, grabs his bag, and heads for the door.
"You're an asshole, Monk. And a shitty liar."
I want to defend myself, but Luke's right.
I am an asshole.
5?
Making Frenemies
Avery
Avoidance is my modus operandi for the next twelve hours. I don't want to talk to Ryan. I want to pretend nothing happened last night. There was no pre-game afternoon make-out session. There was no moment when I tried to climb Ryan like a tree and have my wicked way with him. And Ryan definitely never glibly joked to a reporter about all the hands-on, sexy times he had with Tyra Price and howshedumpedhim. So much for the break-up being mutual.
I'm so confused right now.
Urgh, and that kiss!
