Karla: It’s better than my old standby of binging The Walking Dead with a tub of ice cream.
Me: You don’t need to binge on anything but me from now on. No man is going to make you feel the way I will.
Karla: But…what if I want to binge on ice cream and Netflix?
Me: I will be there with a huge spoon and all the ice cream from the supermarket.
Karla: You’re too good to be true.
Me: You deserve to have someone that is.
Karla: I am going to bed. I have to be in at seven in the morning.
Me: I need to get some shuteye, too. Goodnight, beautiful.
Karla: Sleep well, love.
Slam!
I threw my shoulder as hard as I could into Miller, the largest enforcer for the opposing team and the guy who was currently trying to get the puck away from Gavin. Ever since he’d beaten the shit out of Myla’s attacker with a hockey stick after game one, we were doing a lot better on the ice. I still thought he was a jerk, but I had gained a lot more respect for him that night.
Gavin shot me the rock and I bee-lined it straight for the net. I exhaled, took the shot, and heard the worst sound ever—the clanking of the puck hitting the metal post and flying back towards me.
Fuck. How the hell did I miss that?
“You’ll get it next time,” Gavin called over to me as he rushed for the back of the enemy’s net. He fought for the puck as I skated backward, watching for an opening to help get a chance for someone to take another shot.
Miller checked me from behind, sending me crashing into the boards. It was just going to be one of those nights for me; I was completely off my game. Luckily the rest of my team was not feeding off my suckery—they were playing tight, taking shot after shot.
“Change it up!” Coach yelled, and I gladly skated over to the bench. “Get your head back in this game, Cox,” he snarled at me.
“Aye, Coach.” Everyone has an off night every once in a while, but it was time for me to shake that crap off and help my team get another victory. The seconds ticked by and then I was getting sent back out onto the ice.
Just breathe and follow your instincts.
Rounding the back of the net, Crosby glided over in all his big goalie glory. “Give ’em hell!” he yelled, giving me the puck.
It was now or never. This sprint into enemy territory was going to either make or break the night for me. I didn’t overthink it, the siren blared, and the announcer yelled, “Goal for the Otters by number sixty-eight, Cox.”
We were up by one nearing the end of the third period when Miller decided to pick a fight with Crosby. Gavin and I rushed over to them, both of us getting between our goalie and the douche canoe.
Gavin’s glove hit the ice as I ripped Miller’s helmet right off. Gavin punched the jerk in the left eye with an awesome hook and he was down on the ice before either of us could get another shot at him. Crosby was trying to push past me to get to Miller on the ground as the refs came over, blowing their whistles. By that time both teams were in an uproar and a huge fight broke out. The fans were all on their feet, yelling and hollering as all the players got into it. Sticks were flying, gloves were all over the place—it was damn mayhem.
I glanced over to see Coach yelling at the top of his lungs for us to calm our tits, but there was no point in wasting his breath; there was no way he was going to break through the raged-out mess that was ensuing.
Finally, the referees regained order and we won the game three to two, but in the locker room, Coach didn’t seem to care all that much about the win.
“You all are a bunch of embarrassing jackasses! What the fuck were you thinking?” His face was redder than I had ever seen it before, and we all just sat in our gear in silence with our heads down. It was like we were in kindergarten getting yelled at by the principal.
After yelling for about twenty minutes straight, Couch sighed. “Get your sorry asses into the showers and out of my fucking sight. I never want something like this to happen again. Hayes, Cox, stay put.”
Our teammates all started to hang up their pads and get into the showers as Gavin and I made our way over to the corner of the locker room where our coach had led us.
“What’s up?” Gavin asked. I wondered how weird it must be for him, having such an ass as a father and coach. My dad had been a fucking prick when he was my coach, but that was when I was a kid. I couldn’t even start to fathom how terrible it would have been if my dad had been my coach now.
“What is going on with you two?” Coach asked, and Gavin and I both looked at each other, neither of us having a fucking clue what he was getting at.
“Sir?” I didn’t know what else to say.
