Lake
“Yeah!” Leo calls, cutting hard across the ice, stick down and ready to receive a pass.
I grunt as I absorb a hit, the air leaving my lungs, but then I’m pushing off, angling my stick, flicking the puck up to my teammate.
He corrals it without losing speed, carrying over the red line and then chipping it into our offensive zone when the other team bears down on him.
It’s been like this all night.
Not a lot of space.
On our asses in a second.
A tight game.
I want it to be a blowout, want to give Nova a show.
Tonight’s not that night.
It’s a battle, a grind, a fight for every foot of ice, for every shot, for every pass.
Riggs streaks into the zone, almost a blur, he’s moving so fast.
Which isn’t typical.
Because he plays defense. Because his specialty is blocking shots.
Because he isn’t often streaking, hauling ass down toward the goal, stick on the ice—
Scooping up the puck when the other team tries to clear it.
Hell fucking yeah.
I’m already moving, having shoved the asshole who tried to pin me off, skating my ass off to get into the zone behind Riggs.
I whistle, something that can’t possibly be heard over the crowd noise, over the sounds of the game, over the other team shouting.
But he does hear it, and he reacts, shooting the puck over to me when I take the lane on the far side.
Time slows down.
It’s like I have all the time in the world—to look, to breathe, to see. I cut hard to the left, drawing a player from the other team with me…
And leaving the center open.
For Riggs.
Who keeps skating, his big, fast-moving body a distraction that allows Leo to slide in and camp out by the back door, by the opposite side of the net to me.
Fucking perfect.
I lift my stick like I’m going to take a shot, grinning when the goalie scrambles, when he flinches, anticipating the puck to be flying toward him.
But I’m not shooting.
I’m passing…
Through Riggs’s feet—
And straight onto Leo’s stick.
He doesn’t need to make a move, doesn’t need to get fancy. He just needs to keep the blade of his stick on the ice, needs to angle it properly—
Just. Like. That.
Time starts moving again as the puck ricochets off Leo’s stick with a resounding snick, changing directions so quickly my mind can’t process it.
But then it catches up…
Right as the puck flies into the back of the net.
There’s always a moment of quiet when someone scores, as though our brains can’t quite accept it, and the crowd is usually several beats behind us.
Then the red light comes on.
The fans react—mostly cheers, a few boos from supporters of the other team.
And…it gets loud.
But I only hear my teammates as we collide, nearly taking Leo down at the boards, “Fuck, yeahs!” exchanged, bear hugs given.
Euphoria for one glorious second.
Then it’s back to work, skating to the bench, frustration creeping back in because they’re mostly assholes, and can’t even summon a “Good job” to Leo for putting us up a goal. There’s jealousy and indifference and annoyance at listening to Coach blabber about shit that doesn’t matter, considering he’s likely to be out of here before we make it to the All-Star break.
Tightness in my shoulders.
Anger in how fiercely I grip my stick.
I sneak a look across the ice and see Nova smiling and cheering, her and Ella doing a little dance.
And…everything in me settles.
The irritation. The tightness. The sense of everything going wrong.
Because I have Nova, the rest of it doesn’t matter.
* * *
Since press always takes a ridiculous amount of time, Nova and I made plans to meet back at the house.
Can’t have her first taste of pro hockey be tempered by sitting around, twiddling her thumbs, waiting for me to answer an endless amount of dumb questions.
I noticed that you lost the puck on that one play, what are you doing to make sure that doesn’t happen again?
You guys struggled on the breakout tonight, how are you going to fix that?
Was Rome Dawson, the newest addition to the Eagles, your toughest competition tonight?
I mean, those weren’t the actual questions.
But close enough.
And they all result in useless fucking sound bites.
Especially when everyone knows that Rome is the only reason the Eagles are doing as good as they’re doing.
Traded after spending his entire career with the San Francisco Gold, he’s now found himself playing for the newest team in the league and his Bay Area rival.
Tricky shit.
Especially when he’s still really close with the guys from the Gold.
He’s a pain in the ass on the ice, though.
So winning tonight feels good.
Even if I have to answer dumb questions.
But press is done, I’m showered and heading for my car. Soon, Nova and I can chill for a few days, and not that I’ll admit it to her, but I find that I’m looking forward to some shitty Christmas movies now that we’re actually in the month of December.
I start up the engine and head out, thankful the drive home is less than half an hour, the arena situated closer to Reno than South Lake for ease of access. Which means that I’m in a kickass neighborhood that’s surrounded by nature, situated in the forest and still has a small-town feel, but also the perks of living close to a decent-sized city.
It’s why I was initially excited to play here.
That’s changed, clearly.
But it still has the perk of being away from my family—
As if summoned by the devil himself, my phone rings and I look to the dash, see it’s my mother calling.
“Jesus,” I mutter, jabbing at the screen, rejecting the call.
I want to go home.
I want to enjoy myself.
I want peace.
And I want to have all of that with Nova.
I don’t want drama and bullshit and…I don’t want to deal with my mom right now. I’ll call her in the morning, endure the long, frustrating phone call.
Tonight, I just want peace.
Only, the moment I reject the call, my cell rings again, my mom’s number coming up again on the screen set into the console.
“Fuck,” I say on a hiss, jabbing at the button to accept it.
Just get it over with.
“Hi, Mom.”
Her voice is a shriek. “Lake! Oh my God!”
And all that peace I want…
Is shattered.