The game remains in play as the puck hits the ice again. This time, Morgan recovers the puck and we finally move to the other end of the ice to take our shot. He passes it to me from across the ice and I take a shot.
I’m not sure what happens. The goaltender throws his arms out as the puck comes at him and he loses his stick. The puck bounces off his pads but Barron is there to recover and shoots again. Without his stick, the goalie dives forward and lands on the puck to stop it this time.
The whistle blows and I laugh, shaking my head. What the hell just happened here?
During the next play, Morgan loses his stick, but since there are only three of us and the puck is heading in our direction, he doesn’t go to get a new one. Instead, he makes a dive on the puck with his gloved hands to stop it heading for Horny. He catches it and swats it away.
The next time it comes down, he throws his body in front of the puck to stop it. Morgan plays the last minute of the game without a stick, and seriously, besides him having a complete disadvantage and being unable to attempt a goal, he does damn well defending.
“Nice job, Walsh,” Coach calls as the equipment manager hands him a new stick. “Take a drink. Etna, Patrick, Morgan. You’re up for the shootout.”
I glance at Horny in goal. He’s leaning against the net with his head back and his eyes closed. Doing a little meditating, maybe. He hates shootouts, but he’s been working really hard to focus on one-on-one during practices.
“You got this,” Keno murmurs.
He’s looking at Horny, sending him good, strong vibes. Then his eyes meet mine. “You do too.”
“Thanks.”
He smiles. My stomach flutters. I want to lean in and give him a kiss. But we’re surrounded by people and maybe that’s not a good idea. Unless it gets into Detroit’s heads. Keno places his gloved hand over mine. “You got this,” he repeats, this time to me.
I smile, nodding. Taking another sip, I climb onto the wall and wait for my turn. Morgan’s up first. He’s a bit of a wildcard when he’s in a shootout. Sometimes he’s slow as fuck, and other times, he takes off immediately. Other times he messes with the goalie, zigging and zagging on the ice.
It’s what makes him so good at shootouts. This time, he takes off immediately, but he doesn’t make an attempt on goal. He isn’t even aiming in that direction. He skates around it, but as soon as he clears the side, he has the puck off the ice and flying through the air. It clears the goalie’s shoulder and hits the back of the net.
I grin. “Fuck, yeah.”
“He’s the best at getting in their heads,” Julian says.
The next handful of minutes is just as stressful as the first as we each take our turns alternating with Detroit. Horny blocks all three shots, though he claims one of them was just sloppy and not even trying. In truth, he did a damn good job.
We win by Morgan’s point and it’s a damn good feeling. Time to go celebrate. I’m yawning before I’m even off the ice.
I yawnfor maybe the hundredth time since climbing into the car. I don’t know why I’m so tired. Yes, I do. Between practice, conditioning, an average of four games a week,andsix months’worth of wedding planning stuffed into a single month… yep, I’m tired.
The door beeps and Keno shoves it open. He’s quiet, which means he’s tired too. It was a good game. Detroit is a good team, though their division standings aren’t any better than ours. I suppose what makes it feel like a good game is the refs not trying to be a part of it.
I don’t know what it is lately, but I swear, the refs are trying to swing the games by calling stupid shit that shouldn’t be called and ignoring penalties a three-year-old could spot. A good, neutral set of refs is what every team hopes for. You don’t want to be the team who wins because the refs handed it to you.
We’ve been on the losing end of that already this season. More times than should happen.
Silently, we drop our gear bags into the spare bathroom and head for the bedroom. We strip off our suits together, tossing pieces over open drawers instead of putting them away.
“I feel sticky,” Keno complains with a heavy sigh. “I’m going to take a shower again.”
I nod and follow him into the bathroom so I can brush my teeth. It’s not the biggest bathroom. I feel like whoever built it did so just so they could sell it as an ensuite. There’s a single pedestal sink with no counter space, a shower just barely big enough for two regular sized people—not big hockey players—and, of course, a toilet.
There’s zero storage for anything. Just a couple of shelves by the mirror for bathroom items like a toothbrush and razor. If I remember correctly, Keno told me there hadn’t even been towel bars or hooks when he moved in. It made me wonder what they did with their dry towels or what they dried their hands with. Did they just drape a hand towel over the side of the sink? The shower towel on the doorknob?
I stop at the sink as Keno turns on the shower. Grabbing both of our toothbrushes, I add a dot of toothpaste to both and hand him his when he stands beside me. Keno gives me a tired smile in the mirror.
We brush our teeth together, taking turns to spit into the small sink. I let him finish first so he can get into the shower while I watch his reflection take his underwear off.
Keno is a sexy man. I don’t know why I never realized it until recently. It’s so stupidly obvious. My eyes track him as I finish rinsing my mouth and washing my face. He moves slowly under the spray of water. The glass panels begin to steam, slowly obstructing my view of him until he’s just a blur.
After finishing getting ready for bed, I straighten up and dry my face. When I turn around, Keno meets my eyes.
“Shower with me?” he asks.
