“Dude,” Graham said. “He’s here with his niece. He’s gay, apparently, and she’s sick. Or, at least she’s wearing a medical mask, like the kids in the children’s hospital.”
Crawford winced. “Fuck, I hate seeing sick kids.”
“I know. Me too. Anyway, her sign says you’re her favorite and that she’s a fighter like you. You’ll make her day if you go over there and at least take a pic with her.”
“Fuck. Yeah, okay,” he said with a sigh. “Fine.”
But the time-out was winding down, and they needed to set up for the next faceoff.
The remainder of the first period passed with nothing but a beautiful goal from Anker that got called back due to being offsides, and, by the end, Graham had completely forgotten about the whole exchange with Crawford.
But as he and Graham got ready to leave the ice, he spotted Luke standing near the boards, posing for a picture with the sick kid.
“Hey. That was good of you,” Graham said a few minutes later, tapping Crawford on the arm when they passed in the locker room. “Stopping to take the pic.”
“I guess,” Crawford said, swiping a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Her uncle’s still a fucking dick though.”
Thad laughed, wondering what the guy had said.
Despite some light-out saves by Jesse, Dallas managed to even the score up in the second period, notching a goal against the Harriers.
The Harriers tried to push back, spending extended time in Dallas’ zone but despite their best efforts, Dallas pulled ahead to 2-1 with eight seconds left in the period.
Graham left the ice keyed up and a little frustrated.
Dallas’ defense had been all over him the entire game and he hadn’t gotten so much as a single assist yet tonight.
He mopped the sweat off, hydrated, crammed down an energy bar, then went back out for the third.
After his first shift out, he sat beside Tanner, who was bouncing in his seat like an over-caffeinated toddler. On his other side, their equipment guy, Rusty, tapped Crawford’s outstretched fist, then handed over a small packet.
Crawford crushed it against the top of the boards, then bent his head and waved the packet under his nose a few times, shaking his head and letting out a “woo!” after.
Plenty of hockey players used smelling salts, claiming it gave their nervous system a jolt and woke them up, making them more focused and alert. They also claimed the increased oxygen gave them a competitive edge.
Science didn’t seem to back that up, but it stood no chance against hockey rituals and superstition.
Crawford used them all the time and had offered them to Graham once.
He’d recoiled at the sharp ammonia smell burning his eyes and nose. He’d tried not to gag and had spent the next few minutes dry heaving and trying to get the awful sensation out of his nose and throat.
He hadn’t done them since.
Crawford was a fan though and used them regularly.
“Want some?” he asked Graham now with a glint in his eye, because he’d found Graham’s reaction hilarious the first time and was always trying to goad him into doing it again.
“I’m good,” Graham said drily. “Thanks.”
When Crawford turned back to say something to Rusty, Graham glanced to his other side to see Coach Rassmussen with his head bent, talking to Connor and Rafe about something.
“Hey, so you know the play we practiced the other day?” Mickey asked Graham. “I think we should try it out against Dallas if we have a power play.”
Graham frowned. “Which one?”
Mickey grabbed an iPad and showed him. Graham nodded, thinking about how far Mickey had come in the past year. How sure and confident he seemed now.
He was no mouse, even if the team still called him that.
