Was he being mean? Yes, he was being mean.
August stuck close to Niko while their teammates went through their pregame rituals. Some knocked shoulders, others did tape checks, and some kissed chains and whispered encouraging words.
August had never been a superstitious player, but he did miss having the green tape on his blade that he used last year. Maybe if he…
No, he couldn’t fall into the hole of superstition. If he did, he would end up like Bradshaw, who had a meltdown if anyone placed his stick against the wall the wrong way.
The horns sounded, and the Bigfoots moved forward, hitting the ice to jeers and shouts from Calgary fans. August stopped before he left the chute, turning to one of the male staff, who quickly leaned in to see what he needed.
“The green tape in my bag. I want it on the bench.”
The man nodded, and August scowled all the way through the exit tunnel and onto the ice. He bumped fists with any Bigfoot fans he could reach, and then he was on the ice, skating after Niko.
When it was time for the lineup and the national anthem, August made sure to stand beside Niko, which just happened to be right across from Blanchard. He didn’t think he was being obviously hostile, but when Niko nudged him, August looked away from Blanchard to stare at the space behind him.
Blanchard was shaking his head, as if the sight of August offended him, but then it was time togo.
Callahan crouched low at center ice, stick tense against the dot. August hung a stride back, ready to read the bounce no matter which way it went. The puck snapped down, and Callahan’s strength won the draw, cleanly slapping the puck right to August’s waiting stick.
He absorbed it with a soft touch and lifted his head, ready to make the first move. Niko was already cutting past the blueline, knocking shoulders with a shouting Blanchard, who was trying to block him.
“Oh, Neeky! You got your game face on!”
“Get fucked, Bash!”
August slid a pass to the captain, then dropped a half-step behind, skating backward to cover the middle. He tracked Blanchard and angled toward him, keeping his stick extended, reading shoulders, hips, and weight.
If the play broke down, it was his job to stop the rush before it started. But when Niko slipped past a sputtering Blanchard, Callahan smacked the puck at him, and suddenly August was trailing the rush, ready to jump if it kicked loose.
His job was always a balancing act. Defence first, but never be passive. August’s heart thudded as Niko deked wide, testing the last defender in a series of flashy moves he only could have learned from Fraser. Then a gap cleared, barely big enough for a puck, and Niko took the shot.
The goalie lunged forward to cut Niko’s shot; the rebound ricocheted off a pad, forcing chaos into the crease. Callahan was there, muscling for position, and the rebound slipped straight into August’s reach.
He snatched the puck, took aim in less than a second, and then shot it at the net.
It was too high.
Metal rang when the puck smacked off the pipe, and then Blanchard was there to catch it and redirect the play.
August clenched his jaw, skating backward at a pace that would make most stumble as Blanchard raced for him. Blanchard was fucking fast, and he was no lightweight, but August met him head-on and slowed his momentum enough that he was forced to retreat into his zone, giving the Bigfoots the space they needed to make a shift change.
It had been a good shift. It was August’s best one in the regular season.
He went through the gate and sat on the bench, grabbing his water bottle while his eyes stayed locked onto the game. A tap on his shoulder drew his attention away, and August glanced up, meeting the angry face of his coach.
“Just like that, Snow. Every shift like that.”
August agreed. He didn’t know how something as small as talking to Niko could switch up his mindset this much, but he wanted to ride the high all the way to the end.
When he hit the ice for his next shift, he made good on his promise to get the puck to Niko, who scored their first goal of the game.
August was all grins as he headed back to the bench for the two-minute break with a point added to his scoreboard. He was so pleased that it felt likehehad been the one to put the puck in the net.
He pushed open the gate and stepped off the ice, grabbing his water bottle as teammates clapped his shoulder or tapped his back with their sticks. Scanning for the coach, August froze mid-step.
A familiar brunette sat just behind the bench, cheeks flushed, pretending not to look at him.
August had had his share of fans who had been too friendly with him by coming to every game and trying to get his attention anytime they were in a twenty-foot radius of each other, but this guy was different.
