@FanCamFiend: They’re doomed. That look would melt steel. #PackoUnplugged #EnemiesToLovers #HockeyBrosDoIt
I considered deleting Instagram forever.
Switching back to the messaging app, I read Nico’s text. Then I stared at it, looked away, and looked back.
Still there.
Fuck.
NICO: Miss you, Pack.
The cabin emptied around me. I went home, but a night’s sleep didn’t help. Nothing did.
Morning skate was optional, and I stayed home to recover from the PR trip. That evening, I showed up for the game ready for a full-scale chirp-storm. The boys surprised me, though. There were plenty of sideways looks and smug grins, but not a word about Nico. I made it through changing into my gym clothes, the pregame soccer kick-around, and the team meeting without a single shot fired.
Everything changed when we hit the locker room to change into our game gear. Riley, half-dressed at the stall beside mine, flashed a grin. “You’re glowing, Packy. Kansas City tan, or did Rossi text you?”
I flipped him off.
Holky called out from across the room, “We all watched the locker-room clip. Those hearts flying between you two weren’t regulation.”
“Shut up,” I said. “You’re being an asshole.”
Everyone hooted, but when Criswell walked in to announce the starting lineup, the noise died. I’d never been so glad to see him. After he left, there were no more chirps. We loved to raise hell, but games were sacred.
I finished dressing and tried to lock in for the Miami Sunrise, the league’s biggest bullies. Something was off, though. My gear didn’t sit right, Riley’s pads smelled worse than usual, and Nico was a nonstop iggity-iggity-iggity in my head. Every time I blinked, I saw his text:Miss you, Pack.I still hadn’t answered, jerk that I was, but I would tonight.
The game was a bloodbath from the puck drop. The refs were against us from the start with their phantom whistles and vague penalties. The Sunrise played their usual ignore-the-rules-and-bulldoze game, and too many of our guys went to the bin for fighting while Miami’s men, the instigators, remained free. Through it all, the teams passed the lead back and forth.
Before the third period, Criswell gave a short speech. “Miami’s men are experts in provocation, so be careful about when and how you respond. The refs’ calls have been frustrating. I think they’re calling things as they see them, but we’re making it hard for them to understand what’s really happening. If we stay completely clean, it’ll be easier for them to make the right calls.”
“Coach was right,” Harpy said when Criswell left. “It feels like the refs are against us, but that’s Miami’s strategy. Let’s give the refs a chance to see things as they are.”
We all cheered because when you’re in the middle of a tough game, and the coach and captain agree on something you don’t want to hear, you’d better think again.
When we took the ice for the third period, the Warriors were up 5–3. Things started badly when Jeffers, a Miami winger, tripped Harpy while he was setting up for a shot. Other Sunrise players began shoving our men and trying to goad us into a fight, but we stuck with Criswell’s instructions. None of Miami’s men went to the box, but this time, neither did we.
A few minutes later, our line was up. Holky was at center with Logan on his right and me on the left. Riley and Brody were backing us up on defense. We were in the Sunrise’s zone, and Holky won the draw, sending the puck to Logan. One of Miami’s D-men closed in, and Logan passed to Riley.
I cut toward the slot, but Zimmer, a Miami winger, lunged and poked the puck free. Turnover.
I pivoted hard, skate edges biting into the ice. My teammates raced to defend our zone, and my legs screamed as I chased Zimmer down the wall, closing in. All I needed was one reach, one lift.
One of Miami’s men yelled, “Zims! Man on!” Zimmer dumped the puck cross-ice and kept skating. I blew past him, flying toward our net. My hands were down, and my stick was nowhere near him.
Then…Crack!The boards rattled, and I glanced back in time to see Zimmer go down.What the hell?
I swung around just as his teammate fired from the circle. The shot went wide and ricocheted off the boards, and Brody raced over to take possession.
The whistle cut through the crowd’s roar. I braked hard, spraying the glass with snow. The ref was pointing at me.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding.
Raising two fingers, he yelled, “Boarding.”
“I didn’t touch him,” I yelled.
Zimmer stayed down, clutching his shoulder and peeking through his fingers.
