Page 28 of Tough Guy and the Show Off

Beau lifts his head back up and flashes me a smile that makes a strange, warm feeling flutter in my chest. I hope I’m not coming down with something. I don’t have time to be sick in the middle of the damn season.

Everyone starts to file out of the locker room, except Nilsson, who’s still working on suiting up in all his extra goalie padding. I hang back, giving Beau a nod to go on ahead.

“How you been feeling, man?” I ask, leaning slightly on my stick, eyeing our goalie without trying to be too obvious about it. He’s been on an exceptionally long cold streak. Coach probably would have rotated him to backup goalie by now if our other goalie, Boris Stepanov, wasn’t currently on suspension for getting into a bar fight last month that was bad enough it made headline news for weeks. He’s still waiting to hear if he’s going to end up with assault charges.

“Fucking peachy,” he grumbles. “If you’re here to give me a ‘come to Jesus’ talk as team captain, you can save it. I know I need to turn it around. I’m trying everything, but it’s in my head now, you know? If I don’t play better, I’m going to get traded or cut, and the pressure of knowing that is only making me play worse.”

“I get it. We’ve all been there.” He shoots me a skeptical look. Okay, fine, I’ve never been exactly where he is, but I totally get psyching yourself out. “You just need to get out of your head, find a distraction, build a new pre-game ritual. Hey, have you ever jerked off with a friend?”

“What?” His eyebrows shoot up and my brain fully processes what just came out of my mouth.

“What?” I let out a slightly manic laugh. “Gum?”

“Uh… no thanks. All that weird-ass gum you chew turns my stomach.” He shakes his head. “I’ll figure it out though, I promise.”

I nod. “Well, you should probably figure it out fast since the game starts in about thirty minutes. You’d better hustle so you’ve got time to warm up.”

“I’ll only be another minute.”

I pat him on the shoulder pad and give him an encouraging smile before trudging out of the locker room in that awkward waddle we all do when we have our pads and skates on without the slick glide of the ice under our blades. I can feel the energy of our fans in the stands as soon as I step out onto the rink, instantly going from weighed down to weightless as my blades cut through the smooth ice. Every movement feels like second nature when I’m on the ice.

I hear my name echoing among the cheers, and I can’t resist the chance to play it up just a little, motioning with both arms for fans to stand up and get louder as I skate backward and forward, winking at a few people in the front row and tugging my jersey up a few inches to show off my abs when I see the flash of pictures being taken.

“Show-off,” Beau mutters affectionately as he skates past.

“I can’t help it if they love me.” I smirk and turn away from the stands, focusing on warming up for the game.

The Sharks are doing their own warm-up on the other half of the ice, stretching and practicing shooting drills just like we are. My attention drifts to their goalie, Vesper D’Amore, currently on all fours, stretching in front of their net. He has a rainbow of tape wrapped around the blade of his stick and a sticker on his helmet that says “I [heart] gay hockey players.” The league has made him pay a fine every game that he’s refused to remove the sticker, but it’s still there. I don’t think it’s a homophobic thing from the league, it’s just against the rules to add anything to your uniform. But I guess he’d rather pay the fine than let anyone forget that he’s one of the only gay players in the league.

One of the only out gay players, anyway.

My stomach flutters and I wonder again if I’m coming down with something.

“Take a picture for your spank bank, Showalter,” he says in his Italian accent, blowing me a kiss when he notices me staring.

I snort a laugh. “I was just taking a mental image of how smug you look right now so I can remember it later after I’ve bent your shutout streak over and fucked it.”

“Bring it on, garage à bites.”

I don’t even know what that means. Stupid multilingual chirps.

When the game finally starts, it’s obvious that I was totally right about my and Beau’s new pre-game ritual being a good luck charm. Just like the last game, we’re completely in sync. The Sharks’ forward, Olaf Abramcyzk, comes flying down center ice in control of the puck, and Beau immediately cuts him off and gives me a chance to steal it. Of course, D’Amore is still on fire in the net, blocking shot after shot like he’s swatting flies.

I don’t know if it was my pep talk before the game or if our defensive line is carrying most of the weight, but we end up with a minute left in the third period and no goals on either side of the scoreboard.

“I just need you to score one damn goal, Showalter. I swear to god I’ll build you a fucking statue if you win us this game,” Coach shouts as I skate past.

I huff a laugh and throw myself even harder into the dwindling seconds of the game. Coach pulls Nilsson for a power play, banking on a full-frontal attack to finally end D’Amore’s shutout streak while Beau and Harlson fall back to defend our net.

Klaussen gets control of the puck, flip passing it to me when the Sharks’ defense tries to steal. I deke to avoid their other D-man and fly down the ice with tunnel vision, fixated on the goal. As soon as I’m in shooting range, I fake to the right, then slam the puck right through the five-hole when D’Amore shifts for the block. It soars between his legs and into the net, and the whole arena goes wild.

The period buzzer wails and a massive body slams into me from behind. I know it’s Beau instantly, wrapping his arms around me just a few seconds before the rest of the guys pile on, cheering and slapping me on the helmet or anywhere else they can reach.

“Solid gold. None of that gold-plated bullshit,” I tease Coach when he joins our huddle in the middle of the ice.

He laughs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The celebratory atmosphere is thick as we all head into the locker room, still whooping and slapping each other on the back, excitedly recapping each other’s best plays of the night.