Boston scores early, but Colt isn’t rattled; if anything, his focus intensifies. Boston’s rookie, The Flash, tries to get in another shot, but Colt is quick to catch it.
“Good save, lock in,” I tell Colt as I cross paths with The Flash. I’m expecting him to be pissed, but instead of being mad about missing, he skates past me and the fucker winks. A fire rises in my chest. I need that first goal to be the last goal they score today. I need to wipe that smirk off his smug little face.
“Watch eight-eight,” I yell, and the puck drops. White wins the face-off and shoots it along the boards up to Luka. He passes back to White as we move up the ice. Luka’s gaze locks onto mine.
“Let’s do it,” he yells.
He can’t be serious. We only just started practicing his trick play; it’s too soon.
I shake my head.
“You got this,” he yells. The Flash is gaining on him. He’s been a step ahead blocking Luka like he’s inside his head, but this . . . He won’t know what hit him. I nod, and Luka makes himself available for White to pass the puck. My heart is racing, and that fire that was in my chest has spread warmth all over my body, like my muscles are being electrified by the anticipation of doing something I shouldn’t even be thinking of doing. But then Luka shoots the puck off to me,and I go for it, skating full speed toward the corner of the net. The goalie is right up against the post. Their D-man moves to block the gap, but they have no idea I’m not going to be the one shooting.
I start my tight turn around the back of the net, but about halfway around, that fire inside me goes out as my skates slide too far toward the wall, and when I try to push the puck to Luka, it goes wide, right into the stick of The Fucking Flash. I land on my side on the ice, and when I get to my feet, the buzzer sounds. Boston scores again.
“Motherfucker.”
I get back to the bench, and I’m fucking seething. Why the hell did I agree to even try that shit? Not only did I fuck it up in front of a stadium full of people, but Boston scored off the turnover, and now we’re fucking two goals behind.
“You good, Raines?” Coach Dennings asks.
I grunt, offering little more than a curt nod.
“Are you going to sulk, or are you going to play?” he asks.
“Play, Coach.”
“Good, then flush it and get ready.”
I can feel Luka’s eyes on me. I know I’ve let him down too. He thought I could pull it off, but maybe you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I guess I should stick to what I know. It’s gotten us to the finals and won us a couple of cups over the years, so I have to be doing something right. The coach is spot on. If I’m going to be any good out there, I have to let that shit go, at least for now. I push away the images in my mind replaying my fuckup, and shove them deep down for future Reid to handle.
Colt saves another goal, and the coach calls the line change as they set up for the face-off. The second I’m out there, I lock in. Stick to my job, and remind the others of theirs. The crowd came to watch hockey, not circus tricks.
White passes up to Luka, but instead of sending it off to another player, he makes a beeline right for their D-Man.
Coach Dennings yells, “Protect it.” But Luka isn’t playing safe; he looks like he’s gunning to play a game of chicken with a guy twice his size, which won’t end well for him.
“Protect it.” I repeat the coach’s words, and Luka glances back for a second, his gaze locking onto mine for barely a breath, but even in that time, I see it. The glint in his eye. The confident smirk on his lips. He’s about to do something reckless, and I can’t do a goddamn thing about it.
Just when it looks like Luka’s about to be creamed by Boston’s best defender, he chips the puck, spins like a fucking ballerina around the defender, scoops the puck back up, and shoots it right into the net.
The crowd goes insane. The rumble of cheers vibrates around us like a swarming hive.
I should be happy—Luka’s goal brought us one shot closer to beating these guys—but those thoughts I pushed way down are starting to creep back up, and their deafening cheers make one thing abundantly clear. They want the fucking circus tricks too.
Chapter eleven
Luka
Ican’tbelievewelost again to Boston. If we had just pulled off that trick play, Cosmo wouldn’t have gotten that other goal, then maybe we could have beaten them. Or Boston could still have found a way to win. That’s just how it goes sometimes, I guess. I promised Cosmo we’d catch up for drinks, and while I considered bailing on him and just going home, I didn’t.
“Sorry, brother,” he says, wrapping me in a quick hug. He’s gotten broader, or maybe his chest is just all puffed up after the win.
“We’ll get you next time,” I reply, slapping his back playfully before we sit at one of the small round tables. The sports bar he wanted to meet at is only about five minutes from my parents’ place. It’s old, but in a charming way, with dark wood tables and a bar top surrounded by deep brown leather seating and brass overhead lights.
“I ordered you a beer,” he says, sliding a glass over as he takes a sip from a half-finished one.
“Thanks. So, how’s Eli?” I ask, my eyes automatically glancing at the small silver woven ring on his finger. He’d proposed to Eli with a similar one in rose gold a few months back, and a week later he posted again that his fiancé had surprised him with an engagement ring too.
