A linesman grabbed my arm. “In the box now. Or do you want another two minutes?”
I shut my mouth, and as he skated me off, the announcement echoed: “Paquette, two minutes for boarding.”
The crowd’s boos were deafening, and when I reached the box, I tapped my stick on the ice before going in. It wasn’t enough to count as a protest, but it was close. As I dropped onto the bench behind the glass, Zimmer headed toward the visitors’ bench, laughing with his linemates.
Before play resumed, Criswell asked for a video review. The officials took their time, but the announcement I was waiting for eventually came: “Upon review, it is determined that there was no contact between players. Therefore, there is no penalty.”
While the crowd roared its approval, I exited the box and took my place on the bench. Holky, sitting next to me, slapped my back until I coughed.
Our third line was on the ice, and it took Edwards forty seconds to score. Warriors 6, Sunrise 3.
With under three minutes left in the game, our first line hit the ice. Harpy carried the puck through traffic, weaving through two Sunrise D-men and closing fast on their goalie. He tried to feed Mason, but fucking Zimmer intercepted and bolted for our zone.
Dog took off after Zimmer but caught up a second too late. Zimmer fired, and the puck zipped past Gabe’s shoulder and kissed twine.
6–4.
Then the whistle blew again, and this time, the ref pointed at one of Miami’s wingers. Goaltender interference, two minutes.
6–3.
Our line jumped over the boards for the Warriors’ first power play of the game. When the puck dropped, Miami’s center sent the puck to his other winger, who flew down the boards withit. I cut him off as he neared our goal, but he sent a pass to one of their D-men in the slot. Too bad it never arrived. Riley intercepted the puck and rocketed down the ice.
No one caught up to him, and Riley gained speed as he crossed first the red line, and then Miami’s blue line. Their goalie skated out to cut Riley’s angle, but it didn’t matter. With a vicious crack of his stick, Riley sent the puck into the back of the net.
7–3.
With sixty-two seconds left in the game, Miami had no time to regroup. As soon as the buzzer sounded, the Warriors poured onto the ice like we’d won a championship. As much as I’d have enjoyed knocking a few Sunrise heads together, Criswell and Harpy had been right. If we’d kept rising to the bait, the game might have gone the other way.
Revolution Hops was packed. Since it was a popular place for hockey fans, our win had the fans in high gear. The music was loud, bodies were pressed shoulder to shoulder, and the air smelled like beer, sweat, and flirting. Somehow, the hostess found us a table.
The seating was tight, and I was stuffed between Riley and Harpy. I nursed a beer and pretended to listen while they rehashed the game. But my mind wasn’t really in Buffalo; it was in New York.
I pulled out my phone and opened the messaging app. Nico’s text was still waiting.
NICO: Miss you, Pack.
After staring at it longer than I should have, I typed three different replies and deleted them all. Finally, I decided on “See you Saturday,” and started typing.
PACKY: Miss you too.
After I hit send, I gaped at the phone. Why the fuck had I typed that?
Reply bubbles appeared immediately.
NICO: At last. Had to watch the game to make sure you got home okay. You guys were a different team in the third.
PACKY: I’ll tell you about it this weekend. We’re out having a few drinks.
NICO: Have one for me. And so you know, you looked really cute when you were pissed off.
What the hell was I supposed to say? Before I could stop them, my lips curved into a smile.
PACKY: You always flirt by text?
NICO: Only when someone’s worth it.
My cheeks burned, and while I thought about how to respond, I noticed all eyes were trained on me. I needed to end this conversation.
