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The third period is brutal, but Koa bears the brunt of it by busting through and breaking up every fight those bastards start, and that’s all they’re doing. At this point, they’re not even trying for the puck.
With one minute left, I’m getting elbowed against the boards, almost behind the net, when I sayfuck it. I shove an unsuspecting number 14, grab the puck, and hit a backhanded shot that straight up had no chance in hell of going in, yet it did.
We’re 4-0.
Then I get two hands to the back and decide again, “Fuck it.”
I grab number 14 by the shirt and just start railing on him. Within seconds, we’re in a pile, helmets and gloves off, and blood is coming from noses and mouths.
Whistles blow, and we’re being pulled apart. Somehow, after a game like we’ve played and as dirty as they’ve been, I end up in the penalty box.
The whole arena is cheering my name, whoever the hell is in charge of tunes starts playing the Barenaked Ladies, and I cannot stop smiling.
“Kid,” you just fucked up. You don’t get to smile!” Coach yells at me.
“Sorry, Coach,” I call back to him as I step into the box.
“You’re full of shit!”
“Little bit,” I admit as I turn and Riley, my sisters, my mom, and even my brother all make their way over to me.
Hand over my heart, I look them all over as I finally allow the ice to thaw and myself to truly feel.
“Fuck,” I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose as I repeat over and over again, “Keep it together, Rivera, keep it together.”
Riley holds her hand to the glass, in half a heart, and I hold mine the same way, making it whole. Then she steps back, and six hands touch glass, and I tap them all right down the row, and then I tap two that aren’t visible but will always be there.
* * *
After showers,I turn on my phone and see a shit load of texts, but I open Mom’s first.
Mom:
We’ll see you at Bleachers.
Me:
Love you, Mami, and I can’t wait.
I open the next.
Riley:
You’re staying with me and the whole Rivera family tonight. Pom-poms and booty shorts will have to wait. But FYI, I’m not wearing any panties, and that’s strange because I know I had them on when I came to the game.
Me:
?
Riley:
No need to send out a search party, I’m pretty sure they melted away watching you.
* * *
Press took longerthan I ever remember it taking, and so did the drive to Bleachers, mostly because I had to stop at Uncle Ronnie’s because Costello came for the game and insisted we not break the tradition.
JT, Dash, Hank, and Asher are radio silent, and I know damn well it’s because they don’t want to make a bad impression in front of Costello.
