His eyes landed on me. “Shepherd, you’re my right winger. Wick, you’re on the left. Don’t play hero. Just put the puck in the net.”
“Yes, Coach.”
The roar of the crowd echoed in the small arena. Every wooden bleacher was crammed full. People stood shoulder to shoulder behind the top row. I knew Clara was there. I could feel it.
It took a few seconds to spot her. She was in the third row up, sitting with Megan and an old lady with white hair. When I caught her eye, her laugh turned to a bashful smile, and she gave me a tiny nod.
Adrenaline pumped in though my veins, chasing away my exhaustion.
The game was a grinder. Old-timers hockey is slow, but tonight the barn was filled with skilled players, sprinkled a handful of youthful ones. The old guys were scrappier than the younger players and handed out elbows and body checks like candy canes at the Christmas parade. The Windswan team was good, but not as good as us.
With a minute left in the game and the score tied 2-2, Wick handed out a cross-check that landed him in the penalty box. We were one man down. The crowd was on their feet. Clara stood onthe bench, her hands clasped in front of her face. A woman who looked to be in her late eighties, wearing Tinsel’s jersey, held up a sign that read: GOALIE’S GRANDMA IS WATCHING. It had to be the infamous GJ from Snowy Peaks.
The puck dropped and I charged up the right side. Hands beat the plexiglass as I passed by. “Brush!” I shouted and tapped my stick on the ice.
Logan dangled the puck, faked a slap-shot, then passed to me. I was ready and fired a clapper into the five-hole.
The place exploded.
My edges dug into chewed-up ice, my legs screaming as I slammed into my new teammates to celebrate. We won the game, and after we shook hands with our rivals, I looked up at the stands.
Clara was skipping down the stairs. She made her way to the player’s bench and leaned over the metal bar that ran behind it.
“Hey,” I panted, pulling off my helmet.
“Show-off.” Her eyes sparkled. “You almost took out the goalie’s nuts.”
She was adorable. “Bruised balls are a goalie life hazard.” If only she knew what impact she’d had on mine.
She pointed to the door. “Meet me in the hallway.”
“Okay.” I followed the guys off the ice and waited for her to make her way through the crowded lobby.
“Beck.” She fisted my jersey. “You played good.”
“Just good?”
“Fine. You played great.” She bit her lip, then in front of the entire town of Chance Rapids, stood on her toes and kissed me.
“Is that what it takes to get a kiss from a pretty girl?” Wick elbowed me as he passed by.
Clara smiled. “A bunch of people are going to Charie’s bar, the Beardog.”
“Who’s Charlie?” I asked.
“Charlie’s number four, your defenseman.” She rolled her eyes.
“Oh, that Charlie.” I was an idiot. “Do you want to go?”
“Yes. I would,” she said. She rose onto her toes, and I thought she was going to kiss me again, but her lips brushed past my cheek. “Then I want to show you my cabin.”
My hockey pants hid the thickening of my cock and my heart hammered more blood through my veins. “I’m fucking in.”
This time she didn’t have to stand on her toes, I leaned down and kissed her. Her Burt’s Bees ChapStick tasted like coconut.
A whistle cut through the arena.
“Get a room, Shepherd! Or a fish hut!” The snowplow driver, who was creatively nicknamed Mr. Plow, yelled.
