“Whatcha got there, buddy?”
“A pre-game boost.” I do a body-block on my stash. “It’s not what you think.”
“Really?” Knight cranes his neck to get a better look. “Because I think your assistant hand-made something tasty just for you.”
“Oh, then maybe it is what you think.” I know when I’m beat. The other guys are already crowding around, having sensed that I’m holding out on them.
“What are they?” Viktor asks. Without giving me time to answer, he reaches out to grab one from the open package.
I roll my eyes at him. “No, really. Help yourself.”
Viktor swallows his, the way I imagine a python would shotgun a helpless baby bird. “These are good. What’s in them?”
“Collagen, almond flour, dark chocolate, beet root…”
Camden snorts. “Seriously? We should rebrand the team as The Vegan Venom.”
“They’re really good, actually,” Viktor says.
“Oh, and love.”
He cocks his head at me. “What?”
“The other ingredient is love.” I point to the printed ingredients label that Minerva printed off for every vacuum-sealed bag.In case you want to share,she said. I didn’t plan to, but that’s Viktor to a T.
Viktor’s lips move as he reads the ingredients. He laughs when he sees the last one, which is, indeed,love. “I was not expecting that.” He takes advantage of my distraction to snag a second treat from the open package. At least he slows down enough to chew this time. He sighs in rapture. “I want an assistant.”
“AndIwant to be there when you tell Knova.”
Knight opens another bag ofmytreats. Sneaky bastard, I didn’t even see him reach into my duffle. “Idon’t want to be there. Leave the curtains open so I can watch from a safe distance.”
“If I bring popcorn, can I watch, too?” Owen asks.
“Who gives a shit about popcorn?” Knight chows down on one of Minerva’s culinary delights. “Minnie’s in charge of catering.”
“Minerva. Roman goddess of wisdom. She likes to be called by her full name.”
Knight chuckles. “And goddess of macro-appropriate snacks, apparently.”
Viktor drops his voice to a whisper and stage points at me, “She’s already doing wifey stuff.”
* * *
The Redhawks come out fast.
They always do. Heavy forecheck, bodies thrown early, trying to set a tone before the ice has a chance to settle. The crowd is already loud when Coach taps his stick against the boards and sends the first line over.
Viktor, Knight, Camden.
I take the ice with Bowen and Lenyx for the second shift, legs loose, lungs open. That’s the first thing I notice. I’m breathing easy. No tightness in my chest, no sluggish drag in my thighs from travel legs and bad hotel food.
The puck drops, and we’re immediately in it.
Lennie wins the draw back to a D-man, Murph cuts wide, and I drive the middle lane, stick down, eyes up. A Redhawks defenseman steps up to challenge me, shoulder squared, trying to angle me off before I can build speed.
I don’t slow.
I cut inside, pull the puck through my skates, and slip past him clean. He reaches, misses, and suddenly I’m free with nothing but open ice ahead of me. I can hear the bench rise behind me, the collective inhale as I push harder.
