“What? Why?” Patch reached for her waist.
She leaned into him, her hand rubbing small circles on the low part of his back. “Because there’s press out there ready to act as your public judge and jury. I’m merely setting the record straight with this.” She held up her phone. “My guess is that Guy Footscray is going to be persona non grata in this city for a long time to come. And I want his face shown far and wide so people can remember him.”
“No one better mess with you,” he said, impressed.
“Or my man.”
He pressed a kiss on her upturned lips. It was meant to be quick. A wordless thank you. But his tongue had other ideas.
Finally, Sully cleared his throat.
“Go,” Margot said, running a hand over his hair. “I’ll be waiting.”
The tide of public opinion turned so fast that Patch was left breathless. The next night the Hellions stadium rumbled with the anticipation of a sold-out crowd. Signs were in the audience, supporting Patch. Overnight the news headlines had flipped in his favor.
Now it was time for business. The Hellions and the Renegades had come up against each other six of the past eight playoffs, and an intense rivalry burned bright between them. As the players listened to the national anthem, the tension was nearly palpable.
At opening faceoff, Patch crouched in front of the net, shifting his weight from side to side. Watching. Waiting. Ready.
Puck drop. The stadium exploded.
Patch’s mind emptied like a sieve, just like he’d practiced with Margot. Gone was the stress of the past few months. There was no room during the next three periods for thought. Only breath. He had to live moment to moment.
Hellions went on the offense early. Petrov got a backshot that the Renegade goalie blocked with a core move. He dropped low on the ice, knees drawn in close with his legs splayed out.
It was like Patch had told Coach before the game. The Renegade goalie was good, with a solid well-deserved rep. His moves were honed to textbook perfection. But he was a slave to his habits.
“That’s how to beat ’em,” Patch had said. “Let me color outside of the lines. Feel each play and react in the moment.”
Tor had agreed. And that trust meant everything.
Patch stayed on his feet, agile and reactive, moving around the crease, defending the puck. He could drop low when he needed to; the important thing was to optimize all of his reflexes to be prepared for whatever was coming at him. Time went by and he barely registered the plays, fully in the zone, “giving over to the unconscious mind,” as Margot put it.
Whatever it was called. It worked.
By third period the score was still zero to zero.
“Enjoy your night with the big boys,” Nate Fury grunted, skating in close after Patch blocked one of his famous snapshots. “You’ll be back in the minors before you know it.”
Donnelly didn’t budge. Hell, he didn’t even blink. He took a deep breath, pulling the air right to where Margot had taught him. He was the base, holding the team. And they would be able to fly only if he stayed steady.
“Come on,” Fury taunted, getting in his crease. “Give it to me. I’d like to see you try.”
Patch forced his shoulders to relax. If he locked up, he’d lock out. Coach was right. Baiting him was part of the opposition’s strategy. They wanted to trigger him and rack up the penalties.
But rather than giving himself over to the rage, he pictured Margot’s face. The adorable way she looked eating donuts in bed, the curve to her wrist as she poured a cup of tea. The thoughts provided him with a safe anchor, allowed the storm inside to retreat.
“Not today, Satan,” he muttered.
“You say something?” Fury pressed, eager to get into the shit.
Yeah. He did. He wanted to go home tonight, head high. He wanted Margot who was watching somewhere in the screaming chaos to be proud of him. He wanted to go all three periods without letting a single puck get by.
“Actually I’m good,” he called out in an easy tone. Letting go of his ego. Of fear. Of shame. “And why wouldn’t I be, seeing as we’re gonna win.”
Fury moved on in frustration as Petrov landed a one-time slap shot, edging them into the advantage.
Tor punched a fist from the sidelines. Patch dropped back into an active crouch and let the world go silent. He tuned out and tuned in, reminding himself why he was here. Why he wasreallyhere.
