Nothing sounds better than what Tweetie just described, so I shoot Jade a text that says I’ll be lucky if I don’t skate into the boards thinking about that picture. She sends another picture with the cups of her bra under her tits.
Fuck, you’re evil. I love you. Watch for the sign.
“They’re at Peeper’s,” Tweetie says, looking at his phone. “Watching the game.”
Something about knowing your girl is watching you fires you up to play your ass off. Sure, I’ve had some shit games even while Jade has been in the stands with Bodhi. But having them nearby always motivates me to try harder even though hockey isn’t my life now. They are.
We file out of the locker room, and a minute later, our skates hit the ice. I can’t deny I still love the game, but if I had to choose, it would be my family every damn time. That fact has brought calmness to my game that I didn’t predict. I don’t harp on every missed pass or goal. Not that I’ve lost my edge. I’ll still put someone in the boards if they cross me or my teammates.
The first period’s always about shaking the nerves out of my legs, ignoring the weight of the crowd. Rowan wins the faceoffand the puck glides toward me. I take it up the boards, Tweetie on my left chirping at Ashby, Boston’s defenseman. Some things never change.
Between Tweetie, Rowan, and me, we cycle, pass, and test O’Leary, the goalie, before Ashby gets the puck, shooting it down the ice, chirping back to Tweetie about his piss-poor skills.
Unfortunately, Richards, their center, gets the puck, shooting it to the rookie at the right. Conor watches the rookie as he skates closer, Conor’s eyes on the stick and the puck. He’s the best goalie in the league, so I’m not worried. He’ll stop the goal. Let’s be honest, the rookie is either going to be too scared to shoot, or he’ll ignore his teammates and only have eyes on the goal, trying to prove himself. It takes at least a year for that pressure to lessen the effects on your performance.
As predicted, the rookie shoots and Conor deflects it with his shin guard. By the time the horn sounds at the end of the first, the scoreboard reads zero-zero.
The second period is usually my best for reasons I can’t explain. Rowan feeds me a no-look pass that lands perfectly on my stick, and I rip it toward the goal, but it hits the crossbar.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Their guy mumbles something to me, but I ignore him.
Soon the puck is back on the ice, and Rowan passes it to me again. It’s practically a repeat of the play from earlier, but this time the puck slips right between O’Leary’s legs.
The red light on the net flashes and I do my celly. I place my hand over my heart and point up in the air, my signal to Bodhi and Jade that I’m thinking of them.
Tweetie and Rowan are on me, congratulating me, before we’re off the ice and the second line comes on.
That one was for our little boy or girl. I can’t wait to find out in a few hours when we can open that envelope together.
One more period and this game is over and I’m on my way back to my family.
six
Ruby
I’mbusy behind the bar since the Falcons are playing tonight. It’s an away game, but there are still puck bunnies who don’t understand that the players won’t be coming here right after the game. Social media ruins everything. If it weren’t for that, no one would even know the players hang out here.
Not that my boys are here as often as they used to be. Now Colts players are occupying the condo units above my bar. They’re fine, I guess, but they let way too many girls in the back room for my liking. I miss my quiet crew.
As I think about them, the three Colts walk through the door. The idiots lower their caps as though that makes them incognito and beeline it toward the back room, but I step in front of them.
“Sorry, boys. The room is taken tonight.”
“What do you mean? It’s our room,” Hayes says, looking at me like a kid who just found coal in his stocking.
“It’s my room.” I cross my arms. “And it’s filled.”
Easton Bailey looks at the televisions showing the Falcons mid-game in Boston. “They aren’t even here.”
“Is it the Grizzlies?” Decker asks, proving once again he’s the smartest of the bunch.
The Grizzlies—another set of my boys I rarely see.
“None of your business who it is.”
The door to the back room opens behind me, and I turn to see Kyleigh sliding out.
