Goddammit.
Their goon of a defenseman skates by, a smug grin on his punchable face. “What’s the matter, Novotny? Puck knock the cock outta your mouth?”
Suddenly he falls over, groaning, and the ref’s whistle blares.
Henneman stands over him but gives me a curt nod. When I look back down at the pissant, he’s holding his cup. Well, fuck me. Quiet Henneman just high-sticked this fucker in the balls.
As our defenseman makes his way to the penalty box, Zach fist bumps him. About time my friend started treating the rookie like an actual teammate.
The rest of the period is a firefight, pucks zipping from end to end like tracer rounds. But neither team manages to find the back of the net. We head into the third tied at one.
“Just keep doing what you're doing, Novotny.” Coach Nieminen growls, his gruff voice oddly soothing. “Give us a chance to win this fucking thing.”
I nod, jaw set. I will. I fucking will.
Midway through the third, Jackson’s cutting through the neutral zone, skating like the wind. But that fucking ogre who broke his ribs last season lines him up for a hit.
He misses, but they’re fighting a second later.
And when Connor jumps in, it becomes an all-out brawl.
Not wanting to be left out, I smack my stick on the ice as I skate over the center line into their territory. “Come on, motherfucker.”
Their goalie skates right at me and we start swinging, spitting curses and insults. Yeah, I remember the way he clapped when his teammate broke Jackson’s ribs.
Someone screams my name, and someone is pulling at my jersey. But I don’t stop, too busy trying to beat the ever-loving shit out of this asshole.
Eventually, we’re pulled apart.
On the way back to the net, I smile wide at the bench. Becks just shakes his head while Rinne hides his face, his shoulders shaking. Yeah, of course he’s laughing because goalie fights are rare. Bet he misses this shit.
After penalties are handed out, four players from each team in the box, the game gets back underway.
The minutes tick down and the score is still tied. I seriously don't want this game going into overtime. And definitely don’t want a fucking shootout happening.
Henneman intercepts a pass. He’s in their zone at the top of the end zone face-off circle. He takes a slapshot.
Please, please, please.
The horn blares.
“Fuck yeah!”
Game over.
In the locker room, chaos ensues. It’s Henneman’s first goal with the team and we’re all celebrating. For once, he’s smiling, even though his body is tense.
I make my way over, slapping his shoulder. “Way to go, Henny.”
“Thanks.”
Our coaches come in, giving a quick speech, then tell us to hurry the fuck up and get on the bus. Hands down, I’ll be the last one out. But who fucking cares?
I look around. Maybe Becks and I can sneak in a quickie.
“You tell Coach yet about Miami?” Jackson asks.
“Working on that. Just gotta figure out how to tell Becks I'll be out of town for a few days. On a totally innocent, not-at-all-murdery vacation with the boys.”
