Page 17 of Your Kiss Is On My List

Focus, man. Hockey.

By the time we take our places at center ice around the face-off circle, my focus is back and the crowd, everything outside the boards of the rink, is a blur, the crowd an indistinct mass of roaring Wildbeasts. I’ve entered the hockey zone and the instant the puck drops, I shove my opponent aside and take the quick pass from our center. Game on.

Halfway through the second period, the cold whips past my face as I rush around the ice. Impatience rises, because nothing much is happening for us offensively. In fact, as I circle around the back of our goal, if it wasn’t for Nate making some killer saves, we’d be out of the game altogether. I pass the puck off the boards up to my wingman and then skate like hell to follow as he slips past his defender, managing a three-on-two as I catch up.

Racing to the net, I glance left and see the shot coming. My reflexes kick in, honed after years of drills, hundreds of times a day for too many days a year to count, and I push my stick up in the path of the puck, angling it to deflect up and back over the goalie’s shoulder.

Before I see if the puck made it under the cross bars, I turn and tuck, sliding into a sharp turn, just missing the goalie and his net but crashing into a defenseman. I go down into a heap on the ice in the corner and slide with a bone-shuddering bang into the boards.

The airhorn blasts and the goal light flashes, signaling my score. My teammates crowd me and help me to my feet, while the crowd at the Wildbeast arena is so loud that I have to read lips to know they’re congratulating me and Hondo for our first goal of the game. Finally.

The rush of adrenaline is enough to get me back to the bench without feeling the effects of my crash, but two shifts later and my hip complains loudly. But not loud enough to mention it as we close in to less than two minutes left in the game. Coach eyes me as I climb over the boards.

“How’s that hip?” Fuck. Last thing I need is for him to bench me with the score one-zip.

“My hip works great.” He nods.

“Bet it hurts like hell,” he says and turns back to the game. The other team is pulling their goalie so we’re in for an intense last minute and a half of this game. Coach shouts. “First line out on the ice. Button it down.”

I jump back over the boards knowing this is the time to play lock-down defense and when I get the puck anywhere near the blueline, my job is to shoot it at the empty net. But our opponents have control of the puck and after a blistering wrist shot from the point, there’s a flurry of action at the net for the rebound. I hang back until I see a blue jersey shove our goalie and he falls backward.

An alarm clangs in my head, sending my system into emergency response mode—the hockey version. The ref blows the whistle, but that doesn’t stop me. With my adrenaline pumping madly and a deadly laser focus on number eight, I rush the net aiming straight for the bastard who dared to shove my goalie in the crease.

Reaching him from behind, I grab him by the shoulder and swing him around. The split second I see the whites of his eyes, I whip off my gloves and punch him in the nose. After the satisfying popping sound, blood gushes and all the refs swarm in and grab me. My teammates surround me as the refs pull me away from the net.

I shout a few choice words at number eight as he’s taken to the boards, but I watch Nate, making sure he’s okay, because the last thing I want to see is him get injured again. My heart beats out of my chest as I fight off the flashes of blood and the incident where the melee in front of the net ended in that horrific accident. So long ago. Shit. Someone holds Nate back when he tries to skate towards me and I close my eyes.

Fuck. Don’t throw up. Nausea clutches my gut and I give in to the pull of the refs and skate toward the penalty box. Double fuck. There’s thirty-five seconds left on the clock and now the assholes will have a two-man advantage. Fuck me. I’ve just trashed our team’s chances to win this damn game. I look up when I reach the penalty box and step inside. Coach doesn’t bother with me. He’s too busy coaching, his hands flying around, his intensity palpable.

I nod at Nate in the net and he nods back. He appreciates me standing up for him now, but we’re both well aware he’s about to come under a fierce hellfire of shots. I’ve set him up good to be bombarded by the fucking assholes, have made them fucking madder than rabid dogs.

But I need to sit in the sin bin and grit my teeth while I send all the positive juju I can to Nate, hoping he’ll hold out. The face-off is to the right of his net—which is good—he likes that side. The ref drops the puck and we get it back behind the net. They send in two guys to crush our guy to the boards and dig the puck out.

Meanwhile we can’t afford to send anyone to help him. They slip the puck around front of the net and Nate kicks it out. We battle along the left boards for the puck and they pass it out front. Fuck. The seconds are winding down, but they take a wrist shot and… save! Nate covers the fucking puck, the clock ticks down to zero, and the airhorn goes off signaling the end of the game.

Thank fuck. I jump from the penalty box to the bench and onto the ice straight to Nate where the guys surround him. Then we line up to tap pads with the other team like there are no hard feelings. And there shouldn’t be.

Coach is busy talking to the media. I slip past him and get to the dressing room to track down Nate.

“Sorry about the penalty, man.”

“You should be.” He grins as he starts unbuckling his leg pads. “Seriously, I appreciate you having my back.” He raises his voice and adds, “None of these other pussies got in any punches for me.” He gets some grumbles and shouts, middle fingers, and one punch in return from the team. But we’re all happy because we won. I get to my cubby and start undressing. Coach comes in.

“Good win, men. Way to grit it out.” He pauses, looking us over. “Films tomorrow at three. No morning skate.” A cheer goes up in the room and I let out a breath. Prematurely.

“Eagleton, see me in my office when you’re dressed.” He leaves.

“Shit,” I say under my breath. Nate taps my pads.

“No worries. He’s probably going to congratulate you on a great right hook.” He laughs.

“Fuck you.”

The team manager opens the door and shouts, “Trey, the press wants a word as soon as you’re dressed. Coach okayed it.” He ducks back out of the door before I have a chance to ask if that’s before or after I get my ass fried by Coach.

“Shit. Again,” I say, and Nate shakes his head, grinning.

“Hope you don’t have plans,” he says.