Palachuk nods, making brief eye contact with me and Hen before turning his attention back to getting his gear on.
“Landham,” Coach says, “got the press here. Can you talk to them in five?”
“Sure.”
“No comment about Krikowsky if they ask.”
“And they will,” one of my teammates says.
“I know, Coach.” Landham goes to the mirror to check his appearance. He’s one of those pretty hockey boys, like a football quarterback; all perfect smile, styled hair, and charming nature. He’s also a legendary star center and we’re all just lucky to be on his team. Damn good captain too.
“The best thing we can do tonight, boys, is win,” Landham says. “You know, what we do best. We’re getting that fucking cup this year.” His baby blue eyes land on mine. “Ain’t that right, Bouche?”
I nod, letting his energy seep into me. This is my job, it’s what I love, and I give it my all every time I’m on the ice. “Let’s do this.”
I’ll worry about my brother, my aching shoulder, and my depressing love life when the season is over.
Once I’m on the ice, I work through my stretches and take shots at our goalie to warm up, watching the stands slowly fill with excited fans. Playing at home is always nice. Our fans are the best, the ride or die kind, and after twelve seasons with no cup wins, we’re determined to bring it home. Especially me, since this is likely my last season. Retirement at thirty-six doesn’texcite me, but this body of mine can’t take many more hits. Especially the shoulder. It sure would be nice to end my hockey career on the highest note possible.
By game time, I’m pumped and ready to take on this Detroit team. I’m eyeing Krikowsky, silently hoping he does try to go for our goalie. Then I’ll be justified in punching his ugly face in.
“Paxon ‘The Bouche’ Bouchaaaaard.” The announcer calls my name and I skate out to a deafening roar of the crowd chanting “Bouche, Bouche, Bouche”—my nickname. Bouche means mouth in French, a moniker I earned in my rookie year since I’m pretty well known for mouthing off to opposing teams. I’m also the first to drop my gloves if someone gets under my skin, which is often. Let’s just say I’ve seen more than my share of time inside every sin bin across North America.
I line up next to Hen and we tap our helmets together while the crowd goes wild. Once the starting lineup is on the ice, we listen to the anthem play, then get ready for some hockey.
Landham wins the face-off, slapping the puck down the ice toward the visiting team’s goal. Their guy, Harris, is fierce, but he has his blind spots, and we know them well. For me, being on defense equals slamming into every Detroit player who even gets close to Landham while guarding my guys when they have the puck. Hen is on the other side, covering Nicklaus when Landham passes to him.
I know this move. Nicklaus is gonna fake and pass it back to Landham, so I make sure I get between Landham and the net to make a clear path. Seconds later, the pass happens and Landham slaps the puck forward past the goalie’s left pad while he’s looking right.
Meanwhile, I get the satisfaction of slamming two Detroit players against the boards, favoring my left side and hoping no one notices that I’ve been doing that a lot lately.
Detroit doesn’t make it easy for us, but we don’t want it easy anyway. Palachuk is in rare form tonight, blocking every shotthat comes his way, and when Krikowsky has the puck, I’m laser focused. If he so much as breathes wrong, I’ll be on him.
Krikowsky is good with his stick and on his skates. He’s a fast motherfucker too, but he’s also greedy, and I’d bet he thinks he’s got something to prove after being suspended. Our fans boo him as he skates around our defense, but he didn’t account for me. I let him get closer to Palachuk than is comfortable, making brief eye contact with Hen as I speed up and then put all my strength into pushing forward and taking Krikowsky out so hard he flies over the boards onto our team bench. The puck slices through the air, but Palachuk catches it easily.
Hen smashes into me, butting his helmet to mine in celebration. When I glance at Palachuk, he’s grinning too. Fuck, I love my job.
The arena shakes with the enthusiasm of our fans, pumping me full of all the energy I need to make sure we win this thing tonight.
And we do.
By the time we’re heading back to the locker room, sweaty, exhausted but thrilled, I’m ready to get changed and get home so I can check in with Boone again. He said he was fine, but I know him well enough to know he was leaving something out.
“We’re hitting Chirps after this for beers,” Hen says, smacking my bare back as I get dressed after my shower. “You in, Bouche?”
“Not tonight, man.”
“Oh, come on. You can have one drink with your team. We’re celebrating.”
“Dude, did you see that embarrassed look on Krikowsky’s face after you bodychecked him?” Greene yells. “Fucking priceless.”
I chuckle. “That was pretty good.”
“One beer.” Hen pouts, batting his eyelashes at me.
“Okay. One beer.”
“Yes.” He pumps his fist. “Let’s go, boys.”
