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“Two years ago?” Leon shouts a little too loudly, sounding horrified. “Fuck, I can’t last two weeks.” I knew he was lying.
With similar height and build, it’s not easy pushing Troy off me. “Fuck off, needle dick.” I almost drop my stick, but grip it tighter to prevent it falling to the ground. That would be the worst thing to happen. My dad always swore it was a bad omen if you dropped your stick pregame. I’ve never dropped it before a game, so I don’t know how true that is, but with Lily watching tonight, now is not the time to test his theory.
Brayden wraps his arm around my shoulder. “We are really proud of you, man. This is the most you’ve told us what’s going on in your life since, you know?” He means since my dad died.
I drop my head. “Yeah.” It’s been a quiet two years around me.
“Does this mean we’re getting our old Ash back?” he asks, sounding excited.
“Maybe.” I feel different.
“Well, shit. That must be one helluva powerful pussy if you’ve only known her a week and had one date,” Leon says.
I screw my face up. “If you fucking speak about her like that again, I will chop your dick off with a blunt knife. And it’s not like that.” I look over at her again and she’s laughing and joking with my family as if she’s known them her entire life. “I think she’s the one.”
The boys fall silent.
“Happy for you, Ash.” Brayden squeezes my shoulder. “She looks great in your shirt.”
She does. It would look better on my bedroom floor.
“So, when do we get to meet her?” Troy skates backward, hitting his puck back and forth across the ice with his stick, indicating for us to warm up properly. We move toward him and copy his actions. Coach has no problem with us discussing tactics on the ice during warm up, but he’ll be mad at us if he catches us gossiping like office workers around the water cooler.
“Tonight, after the game,” I confirm. Best to get it over and done with, or they will annoy me until they do.
“Great, can you introduce me to her sister?” Leon chimes in.
“No.” My firm reply makes Troy and Brayden laugh again.
Assholes.
Coach calls us over to have our final pep talk.
I lift my foot and pivot around, my heart fluttering for my love of the game. The tension, apprehension, the anticipation of the win ahead.
Time to focus.
Time to do what I do best.
Game on.
* * *
Twenty seconds to go, we are even. I’ll be damned if we don’t win the first game of the season. Fuck overtime, I want to win this one.
Heart racing, eyes on the prize, I skate right, slipping past three Toronto players, intercepting their pass, and gaining control of the puck. Racing across the ice, I pass it to Leon, who may be a self-confessed man-whore, but he’s the best winger in the NHL.
At speed, and with the agility of a gazelle, in Toronto’s zone, he controls the puck while skating toward the goal.
Ten seconds.
At the last minute, he switches direction, deking the opposition’s defender, going left instead of right, and separating him from his opponent.
Excitement builds in me, knowing what comes next. The crowd grows louder with anticipation.
With the flick of his wrist, Leon takes his shot. The puck skims across the ice, and the goalie is too late to drop to his knees as it shoots straight through the five-hole; the sweet spot between the goalie’s legs, hitting the back of the net. The fans go wild as the goal horn blasts through the arena speakers, and then the Klaxon calls full-time.
It’s a miracle and a wicked start to the season.
