Page 122 of I'm Your Guy
He’s not wrong. Their guy—a winger named Drake—has found some extra gas somewhere, and he’s using it to keep the puck away from Stoney. I vault over the wall and go to work.
My mom is here. I need this win. So I do the thing I do best, which is to become a real pain in the ass. I’m up in his face, trying to push him off the puck, and trying not to foul him.
The world shrinks down to the puck, the glare of the surface, and the sound of our skates tearing up the ice.
“Get a hobby,” Drake growls.
“Got one. You’re it.” I’m skating backward, keeping my stick angled toward the puck, turning any potential shot he might have into garbage.
He’s looking for a pass, but I’ve spoiled those, too.
And then I see it—the moment when his aggravation overtakes his concentration. In a blink, I find the poke check and steal the puck.
Before he even reacts, I’ve sent it to Stoney, who ships it to Kapski.
Who scores.
“Fuck you,” Drake snarls as our goal song begins to play.
But I’m not even paying attention. I’m turning around to spot my seats in Row C. And when I do, I see the best thing ever—my mom and Carter jumping up and down and smiling at me.
For once in my life, I don’t hold back what I’m feeling. I wave like a peewee player at his very first game.
Carter waves back, a shy smile on his face.
And now I need this game to be officially over, so I can get the hell out of here and tell him how I feel.
* * *
Except it doesn’t quite work that way.
The minute we hit the locker rooms, approximately one million journalists descend. It’s mayhem.
Newgate is the man of the hour, of course. The poor guy. He and Kapski can’t even get their gear off before a bouquet of cameras is pointed in their faces.
The rest of us try to maneuver in and out of the showers and back into our suits amid the chaos.
I’ve almost got my shirt buttoned when a reporter thrusts a microphone in my face. “Tommaso DiCosta—how does it feel to have so much attention focused on your team tonight?”
“It feels great,” I say, forcing a smile in spite of the cameraman’s too-bright light. “Teamwork makes the dream work.” It’s unoriginal, but so what.
“Are you supportive of your teammate who came out this week?”
“Of course I am. Newgate’s a great guy, a great player, and I wish him all the best.”
“You’ve had friction with your teammates in the past. Any bad blood in the room in Colorado?” His grin turns feral.
My anger flares, because he’s just looking for trouble. And he assumes I can provide it. “No way,” I say even as my pulse pounds in my ears.
“Yeah? Not even a little?” The guy shoves the microphone back into my face.
For fuck’s sake. I look away, wondering how I’m supposed to get rid of this jerk. But all I see around me are happy teammates, flushed from a win. Nobody else is getting asked this question.
Yeah, but nobody else is a stupid little punk like you, Vin’s voice says inside my head.
Taking a deep breath, I shove that voice aside and picture my mother and Carter in the stands, practically glowing with joy.
Then I turn back to the reporter. “Man, I don’t know why you’d ask me that question on a night as sweet as this one. If you’re looking for trouble, you better go find it in some other locker room.”
