Exhale.
I take a few more deep breaths before the door to the gym opens and footsteps meet my ears. Opening my eyes, I watch as Tucker wanders into the room, his cheeks a blotchy red and a backwards baseball cap covering what I know is a mop of sandy-blond hair. He grins as he looks down at me where I sit on the floor.
“I don’t get how you can do that.”
“Practice,” I reply, pulling my legs in as I bend my knees. My feet come together at the center of my body and I lean forward to take hold of them, pressing down on my thighs gently with my elbows.
“Fucking goalies, man,” Tucker says, with a small laugh. “Like a bunch of freaky gumbies.”
He leaves me to my stretches and heads for the back of the gym where the treadmills line the walls, but instead of climbing on, he bypasses them to grab a long foam roller. I think he’s about to get some stretching of his own done, but he heads for the door with it clutched in his hands.
“Everything okay?” I ask, as he turns to grin at me from the doorway.
“Ball got stuck,” he comments, gesturing toward the ceiling.
I laugh slightly. Sewerball, or two-touch, is a favorite warmup in most hockey locker rooms before games, but in this arena the soccer ball the game is played with often gets punted against the ceiling and stuck in the metal railings high above. I eye the long foam roller before turning back to Tucker. “That probably isn’t long enough. Call facilities to come get it down maybe?”
Tucker looks at the roller, then frowns a bit before he smiles again and looks back to me. “I’ll jump.”
“You’re gonna jump to the ceiling,” I comment, deadpan.
“Jump and like… whack it.” Tucker swings the foam roller like it’s a baseball bat and grins, before heading out the door toward the open hallway beyond. I snort a laugh as he goes, then pull myself off the gym floor because this is something I absolutely cannot miss out on.
Thank you, universe, for this tiny distraction.
Number twenty-four is pissing me off.
All night long he’s been in my face, skating too close to the edges of my blue painted crease and just being a general nuisance. He hasn’t scored tonight, but he sure as shit has come close, and I’d rather eat my own jockstrap than let him slip one past me.
He stands at the edge of the blue paint, smacking his stick on the ice for the puck, and I can’t see defense in front of me stopping any pass that might come for him. Like a hawk, I watchhim beckon for the puck, moving to stand in front of me to block my vision.
“Fuck off, twenty-four,” I warn, raising my blocker.
“Fuck you,” he retorts, skating backwards into me. I see red as he tries to elbow me, scanning quickly for a ref but finding that attention is elsewhere.
I’ll handle it myself, I suppose.
I raise my thick blocker and place it on the numbers across his back, giving him a shove away from me. “Get outta my crease, you stupid fuck.”
He moves back into me once more, so I shove him again. Harder this time to send a stronger message. He doesn’t bother heeding my warning, though, and instead he feels around and throws his gloved hand out, catching my mask with a glancing blow.
Before I can even comprehend what’s happening, he’s gone from my sight and is down on the ice on his back, with Tucker standing over him, seething.
“Get the fuck off my goalie, asshole,” he spits out seconds before one of the opposing players skates over and grabs his jersey, throwing a punch at his face.
All hell breaks loose as the players around me grab a sparring partner and raise fists, grab jerseys, and knock each other’s helmets off. I step back, watching from a safe distance as the fight gets going, but a whoosh of cheers from the crowd catches my attention. A glance toward the other end of the rink quickly shows me the reason for the ramp up of excitement from the people watching. The other goalie has left his crease and is heading toward me from across the ice, pulling his mask off and ditching it at centre ice.
“Let’s go,” he shouts as he gets closer, his eyes wide and wild but not uncontrolled.
I give him a single nod, pulling my mask off and setting it on the ice. I’ll catch shit for taking it off, that’s not allowed, but I’ll be fucked if I let some meathead goalie do damage to the precious gift Shiloh gave me. As he reaches me, I shake my hands, ditching my blocker and glove as he does the same, our equipment falling to the cold ice.
I’m fucking wired for this tonight.
I’m ready to go.
A goalie fight is rare, we’re usually stopped by the refs before we get this far, but tonight is the night.
The crowd vibrates as he skates forward, and I grab his jersey, throwing a punch toward his uncovered face. It doesn’t connect, but it does throw him off-kilter, and gives me an opening to reset so I can throw another. He reaches out and grabs my jersey, pulling me closer so he can try to return the favor. We exchange punches for a few seconds, neither of us landing anything solid until I yank him forward, throwing him off balance. My fist connects with his cheek, and he lets loose a frustrated noise but regains his balance quickly, throwing his fist toward my face.
