He earns himself another eye roll for his trouble. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
He chuckles as he takes the plate from the microwave, setting it in front of me as the smell of melted cheese and jalapeño peppers wafts to my nose, making my stomach growl. They really do look pretty good.
“Bon appétit,” Jack says. He takes a chip, waiting for me to do the same before he offers his in a sort of mock toast gesture. “To the start of a beautiful friendship.”
“Again,” I snort, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I doubt the nachos arethatgood.”
Jack just smirks at me. “We’ll see.”
Eight
Jack
I can feel adrenaline pumping throughmy veins; the game is brutal, with New York tied up with us in the third period. Their center, Peterson, is on fire tonight, but Jankowski has been there every step of the way. It feels like we can do no wrong.
There’s barely a minute left on the clock when we all line up for face-offs, and even if only to myself, I have to admit that my arm is throbbing something fierce. I took a shot earlier in the second that New York’s goalie promptly blocked, but the force of it left a twinge in my wrist that hasn’t faded in the time since. I’ve done my best to ignore it.
Jankowski gets his hands on the puck when the buzzer sounds, shooting to Sanchez just for Sanchez to pass it to Ian. My best friend looks fierce as he glides across the ice, just barely dodging Kowalski from the other team before his eyes find mine. I nod as he lets the puck fly my way, and I all but hold my breath as I grab hold of it, taking off toward New York’s goal with the clock showing twenty seconds left.
I’m going to do it,I think.I’m going to win this fucking thing.
I take a shot as Peterson approaches from my left, his elbow clipping me as he pivots just as the puck flies across the ice. I watch it with bated breath—only releasing the one I’m holding when the lamp lights up and cheers erupt in the arena. My teammates rush me all at once, knocking helmets and clapping padded shoulders, and I have to grit my teeth against the sudden pain in my arm that racked me the minute I let the puck fly. I grin through it, celebrating the win with my team that will mean we’re going to the playoffs. That we’re one step closer to the finals.
We line up to shake hands after, and even that is a chore, I find. The ache is so potent that it scares the actual shit out of me—wondering if this is the moment where my arm will suddenly stop working.
It’s gonna be fine. It’ll be fine by tomorrow.
My team whoops and hollers the entire way down the chute, everyone starting to peel out of their gear as they recap all the highs and lows of the game we just played. Rankin snaps my ass with a towel as I pass by, grinning at me.
“Way to fucking play, Baker,” he praises.
I force a smile, nodding back at him. “Did you expect anything less?”
“Don’t boost his ego,” Ian laughs. “It’s big enough.”
“You’re right,” I smirk. “As big as my di—”
“Baker,” Coach calls, nodding his head toward the office. “Can I see you for a sec?”
The team makes a low sound in unison when he disappears behind the door, like I’m a kid who just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“What’d you do?” Jankowski asks.
Sanchez snorts. “Maybe he’s going to finally tell Jack to stop riding our asses on the ice like he’s a baby coach.”
“Someone has to make sure you guys stay on your toes,” I laugh.
I only feel a slight twinge in my stomach when I make my way toward Coach’s office—wondering what he would need to talk about after a win like that. I turn the handle to his door and push it open in only my compression gear, popping my head inside to find Coach at his desk.
“You wanted to see me?”
He nods. “Have a seat, son.”
I do as he asks, plopping down into one of the chairs across from his desk.
“Hell of a game tonight,” he says. “That was a great shot there at the end.”
“Thank you, sir.”
