I look toward the bench. Coach Ryan catches my eye and jerks his head toward the opposing defenseman. The signal I've been waiting for. Now I have permission to handle it.
As soon as play resumes, I line up my target and wait for the perfect moment. When the defenseman chases the puck into the corner, I'm right there. I barrel into him, crushing himinto the boards with enough force to knock the wind out of his lungs. His head snaps back and his stick clatters to the ice.
The refs blow the whistle immediately. “Two minutes for roughing!”
I’m not even pissed off. The hit was worth every second in the penalty box.
The opposing defenseman struggles to his feet, wobbly and disoriented. His teammates help him off the ice. He doesn't come back.
Skating to the penalty box, I catch Ryan's nod of approval. This is what enforcing actually looks like. It’s notconstantviolence, it’sstrategicviolence.
The two minutes in the sin bin pass slowly. Watching my team play without me, defending successfully, moving the puck with confidence, something clicks into place.
They don't need a big bad enforcer every single second of ice time. They just need me when it counts.
Glancing up at section 112, I see Scout still on her feet. She's watching me in the penalty box, hands pressed together like she's praying or just nervous. When I catch her eye, she mouths something I can't quite read. I point at her and she blushes.
My chest goes tight again. I’d do more than that, maybe make a heart with my fingers, but I don’t know if Scout’s ready for the kind of heat and questions that gesture would bring her.
When my time's up, I hit the bench and my teammates swarm me. I get pats on the back and fist bumps. Thorne especially, flexing his wrist with a grim smile.
"Thanks, man. That was perfect."
"No problem. He had it coming."
We win 3-1. Not my most physical game by a long shot. But, I think proudly, maybe my smartest one.
In the locker room afterward, Ryan catches my eye across the melee of celebrating players. He just gives me a single nod that says everything.
I shower quickly and change, eager to find Scout. She's waiting outside the locker room, still wearing my jersey, bouncing on her toes with excitement.
"You were amazing!" She throws herself at me and I catch her easily, lifting her off her feet. "I mean it, Si. You were so smart out there. You were strategic, until you needed to pay that dude back for Thorne. That hit was perfect."
"You noticed all that?" I set her down but keep my hands on her waist.
"Of course I noticed. I was watching you the whole time." She grins up at me. "You didn't have to meet every sensation with force. You were patient. You waited for the right moment."
"Ryan was right." The admission comes easier than I expected. "Turns out there's more than one way to be useful."
"I'm so proud of you." She reaches up, cupping my face with both hands. "This was a big deal. You tried something new and it worked."
"You came to watch." I’m stating the obvious, but I can’t stop staring at her. "You're wearing my jersey."
"Of course I came. And of course I'm wearing your jersey." She looks down at the oversized fabric, smoothing it over her hips. "I wanted everyone to know whose girl I am."
The words hit harder than any check I've ever taken.Whose girl I am.
"You look good in my number," I manage.
"Yeah?" She grins, doing a little spin that makes the jersey flare. "Think I should wear it more often?"
"Every day. Never, ever take it off."
She laughs, bright and happy, and links her arm throughmine as we head toward the parking lot. Scout keeps chattering about the game, pointing out plays I made, asking questions about strategy. She's engaged and interested and wearing my number. I don't fucking deserve a girl like her.
Ryan was right. Scout was right. What do you know?
Chapter Twenty-Six
