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Isaac shifted his stance and his focus and zeroed in on the shooter barreling down the lane toward him on yet another breakaway. Goddammit. Didn’t his team pay any attention to the drills they’d been doing on defense? Isaac couldn’t win games by himself.
Luckily the shooter tried to go topside—they all tried to go topside, as if Isaac hadn’t learned to compensate for being shorter than most goalies—and Isaac stopped it easily with his glove, tossed the puck down to the ice, and made a kissing sound at the jackass who thought his “fucking asshole” was a mind-blowingly original insult.
They were playing the Ravens, though. So no one was looking at them for originality.
It was the first round of the playoffs, and in contrast to their appearance last year, the current season came with a lot more expectations. Last year the team—and their fans—had been shocked to see the unlikely Spitfires even make it to the first round, much less win. And they’d managed a home and away playoff victory before the Ravens knocked them out. But the Spitfires had gotten hungrier since then, and they had a good chance at making the conference finals.
The Ravens had avenged their loss from the previous season and taken down the reigning champs, the Jacksonville Sea Storm, in a grueling, seven-game series. The Storm, who’d won the Kelly Cup two years in a row, had a disappointing season when their star goalie, Riley Hunter, had been sent up to the AHL along with a few of their forwards. The Storm had a good young team, but they weren’t quite as experienced, and it was a surprise they lasted as long as they did against the Ravens.
The Storm probably hated the Ravens, because every team in the ECHL hated the Ravens. No one could say they hated the Ravens as much as the Spartanburg Spitfires, though.
It was the second period of their third game, the first in Spartanburg, and the series was split 1-1. While things hadn’t started out hatefully—it was the playoffs—they were rapidly turning that way. Isaac watched from his goal as Hux pummeled Tyler Simon and hoped his goalie mask hid his fierce, pleased grin as Hux landed one right in Simon’s gut. Oddly nothing had ever come from that bar fight, even though Misha had been on tenterhooks thinking it would. Either St. Savoy had just as much to lose by raising a fracas about that whole thing, or there was some other sinister reason. Isaac didn’t have time to worry about it, though, and they were three wins away from forgetting about the Ravens for the rest of the season.
While the linesmen broke up the fight, Isaac found his gaze sliding over to the bench. Laurent was there, dressed and wearing his Spitfires cap and staring at the ice with his usual unfriendly expression. But he glanced over at Isaac, and Isaac thought he saw Laurent smile a little, or give his expression that counted for a smile, since expressing happiness was still a foreign concept to Laurent.
Laurent was doing much better and was having sessions with Liz every two weeks. He’d cooled off on the throwing up—if he felt like he needed to, he just came over to Isaac and asked if Isaac would bite him—and he was markedly better about eating, as long as Isaac was the only person there. He explained in his usual, vaguely defensive Laurent way, that Isaac was safe enough for Laurent to eat in front of. But Liz was making headway in untangling the knots of Laurent’s issues, and Isaac was forever grateful for that.
The fight was over and the teams were each down a man, so he switched his attention, hit his fist into his glove twice, skated side-to-side once, and settled in to play.
The Spitfires scored twice in the third, giving them a comfortable 3-1 lead. Isaac was on top of his game. He was in that zone where he felt the ice beneath him, where his body moved as though he were an extension of the pipes, and where he anticipated the puck and trusted his body to do what it needed to do to stop the puck from crossing the goal line.
What he did not anticipate was Tyler Simon crashing into him with the fury of an incensed freight train.
Simon and Hux had each been given a penalty for fighting in the second, but both men were back on the ice for the third. Hux, who was a graceless oaf with his stick sometimes, had been hauled off for a high-sticking penalty. But for some reason known only to Denis St. Savoy and the devil, Tyler Simon had been placed on the Ravens’ power-play unit.
Isaac actually laughed when he saw the players line up on the ice to start the power play. Tyler Simon was not a power-play guy. He was the sort of guy you put in when you wanted a fight, not when you had a chance to get back in the game, late in the third period. In the playoffs, for fuck’s sake.
But Isaac wasn’t laughing when, two seconds after the faceoff, Simon came racing toward the crease—without the puck—and didn’t stop.
Isaac felt Simon’s stick hook under his left ankle as Simon wrenched it back brutally, and he went sailing backward as the net crashed off its moorings.
Simon hissed, “I hope I broke your fucking leg, Drake,” and then climbed up and off him as the linesmen immediately arrived to escort him off the ice—and hopefully out of the building.
Isaac tried to stand up, but the pain in his ankle made him want to throw up, and he couldn’t. He lay on the ice with tears on his face as the pain radiated up from what was either a break or a bad sprain, and he couldn’t believe it was happening.
The team trainer was there in a hurry, along with Misha, who looked so pissed off that the first thing Isaac said was, “I didn’t let in a goal, did I? Because no way can they count that.”
Misha’s answer wasn’t in English, but a warm hand on Isaac’s shoulder got his attention. Coach Ashford. “You didn’t let in a goal, Drake. Simon didn’t even have the puck.”
Misha made an angry sound and looked like he wanted to tear someone’s throat out. “Can you stand,” Misha snapped, making it more of a demand than a question.
Isaac shook his head. “I think it’s broken.” When he sat up, a wave of dizziness assailed him, and he clutched quickly at Misha to get his bearings. The trainer and Max helped Isaac to his feet, and Isaac immediately lifted his foot so there was no weight on his ankle. It still hurt like fuck, and he tried very hard not to whimper at the pain, but he probably failed.
“It’s okay,” Max said over and over as they made their way toward the tunnel.
The crowd’s applause was thunderous, and there was an undercurrent of angry muttering as Isaac left the ice, because that had been the literal definition of a dirty hit.
Laurent was suiting up in the tunnel, and his eyes met Isaac’s. Isaac had never seen Laurent look so furious. Max somehow knew that, in pain or not, Isaac would want to say something to Laurent, so he nodded at the trainer, and they came to a brief stop.
Isaac tried to offer some encouragement, though the pain made him woozy enough that it was hard to speak. “Avenge me, Saint.”
“This game is over.” Laurent smiled as he pulled his mask down. It was not a nice smile, but if Isaac weren’t in severe pain, it probably would have gotten him hard. He gave Laurent a weak head bump, and he could hear the crowd cheering as Laurent skated out on the ice.
They took Isaac to the hospital, which he thought was overkill. But the trainer said they needed an X-ray to make sure his ankle wasn’t broken. It felt broken, although admittedly a lot less so when they gave him some morphine. Then it felt great.
Sometime during the pleasant drug haze, after he had the X-ray and they wrapped his ankle and elevated it, Laurent showed up. He was showered and dressed and holding a stuffed animal in his hand.
“Tell me,” Isaac said.
“Five to one.” Laurent answered the question Isaac didn’t even have to finish. Which was good, because Isaac had discovered it’s hard to speak when you’re stoned out of your mind on opiates. Laurent shoved the stuffed animal at Isaac. “Here.”
Isaac took it and tried not to laugh when he saw what it was. “A stuffed duck?”
Laurent mumbled something, and Isaac had to make him repeat it, because it all came out a pleasant garble of words spoken in Laurent’s warm, low voice as he addressed the floor.
“I said, it reminded me of the lake. Okay?” Laurent slumped down in his seat and crossed his arms. “It scared the shit out of me when you didn’t get up after that hit.”
Before Isaac could say anything, the door to his room opened, and Misha came in with the doctor. Misha put his hand on Isaac’s shoulder for a moment. Then he patted it twice.
“The good news is your ankle isn’t broken,” the doctor said. She was a serious-looking woman who didn’t even raise an eyebrow at Laurent’s scowl or the fact that Isaac was holding a stuffed duck. “The bad news is, you’re going to have to be off it for a few weeks. You’ll be on crutches for the first few days. I’m sorry. I know you’re in the middle of playoffs.” She smiled briefly. “Go Spitfires. I hate the Ravens.”
“So there’s no chance I’ll be able to play any more this season?” Isaac asked, trying not to sound as devastated as he felt.
“I’m sorry, but it’s extremely unlikely.” The doctor gave him a sympathetic look. “You’ll be healed up fine by next season, but unless you want to risk permanent injury, I’d say no. Even if it feels better, you need to give it time.”
Well, fuck. Isaac groaned. “Tell me they suspended Simon.”
“It was two hours ago,” Laurent reminded him. “But I’m sure they will. He wasn’t even carrying the puck.”
“He’ll have a hearing, or I will personally see that he does not play again,” Misha said, grimly. His fingers tightened briefly on Isaac’s shoulder, and then he pulled his hand away.
“Misha, don’t kill anyone,” Isaac murmured as he looked up at his coach.
“You don’t even sound like you mean that,” said Laurent.
“You’ll need to do physical therapy a few days a week after the initial swelling goes down.” Misha gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “I’m sorry, Isaac. I know how much you wanted to win this series.”
Apparently uncaring of his audience, Laurent leaned in and took Isaac’s face in his hands. They were trembling, but Laurent’s voice was firm. “They’re not scoring a goal. Not for the rest of the series. I promise, Isaac.”
Isaac kissed him and practically swooned like a heroine in a gothic romance, and when he stopped, he and Laurent were alone in the room once more.
They didn’t speak, but Laurent stayed with him until it was time to go home.