Other than slam him into the boards and put him in the hospital? No.
“Uh, when you go against guys like him, you just keep your feet moving and try to guess their next play.”
“That does sound smart,” said whatever her name was. “Your rookie goalie got the chance to start tonight. Do you think he’s been a good addition to the team so far?”
He was doing just as well as Floyd, if not better.
“Sauce is doing great. The boys love having him around, and he’s been having a great game so far.”
“And why do you call him Sauce?” she asked.
August shifted his weight. His knee was annoying him.
“It’s actually Red-hot Hot Sauce because he has bright red hair, but we shortened it down to Sauce.”
She smiled, and August knew she was a nice girl, but he was thirsty, sweaty and fuck—he needed to sit down.
“Well, thank you for your time, and I think I speak for all of us when I say we’re excited to see you during the All-Star weekend.”
August nodded. “Thanks, I’m excited for it, too.”
He left before anyone else could stop him, checking his tape and leaning his stick against the wall before joining his teammates. August sat in his stall and pulled his jersey off, hissing when his right knee gave a sudden throb.
“Fuck.” August massaged the tender areas, trying to loosen the tight muscles of his thigh.
“Keeping up with Park is no fucking joke,” Niko muttered. His black hair was drenched, and he had a towel sitting over his head, which he occasionally used to mop the sweat from his face. “Jett was at least predictable because I know his plays well enough to read them, but Jin’s skating is as chaotic as his personality.”
Callahan groaned from across the room at Niko’s words. “It’s the figure skating shit. It’s like he’s dancing around us or something.”
Coach entered the room, his scowl looking particularly pissy tonight. “Is that crying, Callahan? No tears allowed in here. Save it for showers.”
Nollan Haas—or Sauce—their rookie goalie, snickered like Coach was telling them a joke, which had Logan struggling to hide his smile by crushing a towel to his face.
“The kid has no survival instincts,” Logan whispered to August. “That, or he’s just a goalie. Coach didn’t even glare at him, so I’m betting on the latter.”
Fedorov wasn’t glaring at Haas, but hewasglaring at August and Niko. “You two, stop galloping like deer caught in snowstorm and move your feet faster. You’re giving Park too much open ice—tighten it up.”
August nodded, and the rest of Fedorov’s pep talk faded away as one of the medical staff came over to check his knee. Nothing ever escaped their sharp eyes, so August was forced to sit patiently while his leg was flexed, bent, twisted and taped to strengthen it.
The ice pack combined with the tape helped ease the throbbing, and August thanked the doctor with a grateful nod.
“I’m not going to let another puck into my net,” Haas said, his expression shifting from playful to serious. “I got a feel for it now. Trust me.”
August didn’t know if that was possible with how quickly Jin could release the puck, but Haas’s words stirred a wave of determination in the room, and it felt like everyone was on board.
When they went back for the second period, not only did Haas not let a single puck past him, but Niko and August both managed to score against the Conclave, tying the game. This only served to amp the team up even more during the second intermission, and by the time they hit the ice for the third period, August’s knee was killing him, but he was ready to break the tie and win.
“You’re moving kind of slow, Old Man Winter,” Jin chirped over the manic crowd on their way to the face-off. “Maybe you should consider retirement.”
August grinned and lifted his chin, a move that tended to infuriate shorter players, and Jin was no exception. “Park, I’ve been dying to know—when you hire a party planner for your birthday, do they ask if you want it Minecraft or Spider-Man themed before you tell them how old you are?”
Jin’s furious response wasn’t in English, so August shrugged and took his place for the puck drop, chuckling when he saw tears of laughter clinging to Niko’s dark eyelashes.
When the puck hit the ice, Jin was still too pissed to win the faceoff, but he was on August’s ass the second the puck touched his tape. He cut across the blueline with Jin glued to his hip, their skates scraping in perfect, furious sync. Niko opened a lane with a rough shrug on the Conclave player tailing him, and August took it, snapping his wrist and sending the puck sailing clean over the Ottawa goalie’s pad.
The roar of the crowd and goal horn was deafening, and August was all smiles as he was shoved into the corner boards by his teammates.
“Fucking awesome, Snow,” said Callahan, slapping him on the shoulder with enough happiness to erase any of the lingering tension between them.
