I feel good about this one.
As I skate around the rink, my gaze wanders to the stands. At first I don’t realize who I’m looking for until I don’t spot her, and disappointment sets in. Of course Aria’s here somewhere. I haven’t seen much of her since our little dalliance in the club two nights ago. The few times I’ve glimpsed her, she’s been cool toward me. If she thinks her feigned disinterest is a deterrent, she’s underestimating me. I love the chase, and after having had her, I’m more determined than ever for an encore. I’m asking for trouble, but since when has that discouraged me?
“Hey, watch where you’re going.” Milos Reznik does an amazing zig to my zag to avoid a collision. He mutters a few choice curses in his native Czech as he passes by.
“Sorry, buddy,” I say contritely. I’m disgusted with myself. I’m warming up for game two of the first round, and I’m thinking about a woman I’ve sworn to hate? What the fuck is wrong with me?
I refocus my attention on hockey and refuse to look into the stands again, which ends up being harder than I ever imagined. Several times I catch myself glancing at the crowd.
“You’ve got a problem, my friend.” Kirby slaps me on the back so hard I fly forward on my skates. Struggling to stay on my feet, I grab the boards and manage to regain control, but not before I hear the laughter and jeers from nearby teammates.
“What are you talking about?” I ask after Kirby catches up to me.
Kirby snorts with the superior knowledge he knows something I don’t. Sometimes his ability to see things no one else sees is fucking irritating.
“She’s sitting behind Roman about a row up.” He winks and skates by.
I can’t help myself. I look in the direction he’s indicated. There’s Aria. She rarely sits in the press box. I’ve never asked why, but maybe she likes to be closer to the action. Aria’s wearing a tight T-shirt with All Hockey News emblazoned on the front, and she looks damn fine. She catches me staring and raises one finger in subtle acknowledgment. I nod and quickly look away. I hope my helmet hides the embarrassment surely visible on my face.
My current behavior is foreign to me. I can’t recall ever behaving like this over a woman, especially one I’ve already slept with.
And here I go again, allowing her to distract me from my game. This stops now. With renewed determination, I avoid looking in her direction.
The game is a repeat of two nights ago. Both teams battle every second with no letup. It’s survival of the fittest, and I’m steadfast in my belief that we’ll be the last man standing. Once again, we go into the third tied, but this time the goalies are forces to reckon with. The score is zero-zero, and at times it feels as if no one will ever hit the net again.
With three minutes left, Kirby steals the puck and pivots, looking for someone to pass to. I’m already streaking toward the net ahead of the other players. I hear the bench shouting at Kirby to notice me. He does and shoots a stretch pass right into the curve of my stick. It’s a footrace, and I have the advantage. I gallop toward my destination and see an opening. I used to see these types of openings often in the past, but lately that particular talent has eluded me. Not in this instant, though. I don’t hesitate. I shoot a rocket toward the net. It streaks past the goalie’s left shoulder and into the net.
My teammates both on and off the ice celebrate, but not for long. I’m unusually stoic even though I enjoy a good celly as much as the next guy. Now is not the time to slack off on the pressure.
I accept the congrats of the guys, and we get in position for the puck drop.
What happens next is a problem that has plagued us all season long. With three minutes left in the game and a one goal lead, we let off the gas. Colorado scores with a minute left.
Briggs attempts to steal the puck from a Colorado forward and trips him. Whistles blow, and Briggs is sent to the sin bin.
We fight tooth and nail to prevent a score, but luck, once again, is not on our side. With five seconds ticking off the clock, Colorado scores another. Just like that, we’re down two-one.
Game over.
Deflated, we trudge down the tunnel while Colorado dances on our newly dug graves. I wallow in self-pity for a few moments before I pull myself back from the brink. As long as there’s another game left to play, we have a chance.
We’re flying home tonight, and I’ve never been happier to leave a place than I am at this moment. The raucous, ride-or-die Portland crowd might prove to be the advantage we need. At least I hope they do.
Even Coach Jeffs has little to say other than, “Good game, and sometimes you can do everything right and still lose.”
None of that makes me feel any better, though I played a good game for the second time in a row.
We’re a solemn but determined group as we board the plane a few hours later and make the trek home. I sleep most of the way, and Aria dominates my dreams. In some scenes, she’s mocking me, in others she’s having sex with me, and the most horrifying one is a dream of Aria, Noah, and me as a family.
Where the hell did that come from?
Chapter 16
Sensationalist Crap
Do you believe in miracles? I do, and I think the Icehawks will pull this off somehow and win this round. Next up, they have two games at home, and my money is on them to tie the series two-two before heading back to Colorado. Why do I believe? you might ask. Call it a hunch, but when they came off the ice after their second loss in the playoffs, I didn’t see defeat in their eyes. I saw determination. Add to that, their goalie is hot right now, and Lenkov’s slump appears to be over. Buckle up, Icehawks fans, whatever the outcome, this is going to be a wild ride. —Aria at All Hockey News
~~Aria~~
