Mav dodges around a defender and is one-on-one with the goalie. He’s great in this situation, but I skate up the side to give him an outlet if he needs it.
O’Keefe flies up center ice and strips the puck from Mav.
“You’re on the same fucking team, asshole,” Brant yells.
O’Keefe shoots, and the goalie stops it, but the puck ricochets off his leg and Mav taps it in.
Mav purposefully gives O’Keefe his back to hug Griff and me. “We need to figure out a celly for our line.”
Coach screams at O’Keefe to get off the ice, and Mav’s face breaks out in a grin.
“Worth it.” Mav fist-bumps me.
By the end of the first period, we’re up by two and head into the tunnel on a high note. One of the defensive coaches drags O’Keefe into an empty room.
O’Keefe vibrates with anger as he returns to the locker room and doesn’t seem to listen to the coaches. I need to stop worrying about O’Keefe and concentrate on my game.
Toronto scores a goal one minute into the next period, but Drake and Lucky combine for another goal two minutes after that.
My line isn’t on the ice with O’Keefe for three shifts, and it’s a relief. Not for Brant, who’s paired with him. Coach pulls Brant off the ice after he gets knocked into the boards by O’Keefe. Grayson does a vision test on a flaming, angry red Brant.
Winning seems out of reach with O’Keefe’s sabotaging us. Griff takes the puck around the back of the net, setting up a play we’ve practiced a million times. We’re in position and Griff sends the pass to Brant as planned. But Brant is hit from behind by O’Keefe, who steals the puck. Brant’s kneeling on the ice with his head down and the whistle blows.
I bend down and Brant says, “I’ll rip his head off.” He winces and pants, “His blood will stain the ice.”
Grayson comes in hot, sliding to a stop next to us, ready to assess Brant.
“He’s not hurt. I’m here to prevent a murder,” I say.
Grayson has Brant lie flat on the ice.
In Brant’s ear, I whisper, “You’re at the start of your NHL career, the first year on this team. He’s not worth ruining your shot. Once you’re labeled a problem, it follows you everywhere. Don’t do that to yourself.”
“Let us help you up.” Gray pulls him into a sitting position.
“Gray can give you some magic juice on the bench.” I take one side and Grayson takes his other.
Mav hears that and pipes up, “Magic juice?”
“It’s a sports drink. The good stuff,” Gray plays along, and helps me lift Brant.
“Thanks,” he says.
“I got you.” I steer him to the door that Grayson opens instead of letting him go over the wall. “Gotta make it look good. Congrats.” I help him sit on the bench so Grayson can pretend to examine him.
“For what?”
“For avoiding the sin bin and a police arrest.” I take a water bottle and drink.
“Don’t congratulate me yet. The game’s not over.”
We win but O’Keefe manages to piss off most of the team. Only Benz will speak to him because he’s Benz. He’s probably talking O’Keefe into a treatment to align his chakras.
Only Theo O’Keefe can suck the fun out of winning.
My words to Brant ring in my head. Once you’re a problem, it follows you. I don’t want to feel sympathy for O’Keefe. He hasn’t earned it after stealing my life.
Chapter 6
