Page 186 of The Blame Game

He’d made it back in time for game two of the first round and damn had that felt fucking good.

He smiled, remembering his first game back. Shea had been there, cheering him on from beside the other SAPs.

The moment had choked the breath from Dom’s lungs, overwhelmed him.

To see Shea there, wearing his jersey and knowing that he was committed to a future with Dom … it was something Dom had never imagined for himself.

After warmups, Dom had asked Pete—their head equipment manager—to send Shea a signed stick, to make him laugh.

Dom had signed it, To my biggest fan, xoxo, then scribbled his name and jersey number.

That night, after he got home from the game, he’d made a face when he saw it hanging in their living room.

“Really?” he’d asked.

“Really.” Shea had grinned, pushing him onto the couch and dropping to his knees on the carpet. “Now let your biggest fan give you your reward.”

Fuck, Dom was a lucky man.

Now, Matty danced by, shaking his ass to the beat of the music thumping through the speakers. Dom reached out, smacking his ass for good luck, then returned to his taping job, sliding into the familiarity of his routine like slipping on a pair of perfectly broken-in skates.

He finished taping his sticks, leaning one against the wall near his stall then slotting the extras into the rack in the hall outside of the dressing room, ready for Pete to hand over in case he broke one mid-game.

Back at his stall, Dom began the next part of his routine, dressing slowly and carefully, noticing the texture of his gear. The soft, slippery texture of his base layer, the glide of the laces against his fingers, the stiffness of the logo on his jersey when he settled it over his shoulders.

He felt calm and centered as he took a seat in his stall, bowing his head and closing his eyes to visualize the game ahead. The shick of his blades cutting through the ice, the solid thwack of the puck of against his blade, the vibration of the stick traveling up his arms as he let the disc fly.

Someone called out the time and Dom took a deep breath and then another.

He opened his eyes, rose to his feet, then strode toward the exit where guys were lining up. He tapped his teammates on the shin as they went past, wishing them a good game and getting glove taps to the chest in response.

Matty leaned in, doing their pre-game handshake, and when Dom glanced up, Matty met his gaze, brown eyes light and happy.

“You ready to go kick some Harrier ass?”

“Never been readier!” Dom said with a laugh as they moved fluidly through the handshake and chest bump.

Dom flew onto the ice like he was the winged hawk, soaring on the roar of the crowd.

Toronto’s arena was packed to the brim, the whole barn shaking from the music and the noise from the fans.

They were currently 3-1 against the Harriers in the series. If Toronto won tonight, they’d go on to the second round. Dom had no idea how many games they had ahead of them, so he had to make the most of every single one.

“Alright, boys,” Gilly said, raising his voice to get their attention as they prepared for the first period. “We know what’s at stake here. But we also know how to beat Boston.”

He glanced over at Webby, who had been on a hot streak after Macky had fumbled game one.

“We know how to keep pucks out of our net. What we need is pucks in their net. You hear me?”

“Yes, Gilly!” the team shouted.

“We’ve seen it in the previous games. Their defense breaks down when they’re barraged with shots so I want you to keep the puck in their zone and hammer them. If you think you have a chance, you shoot. I want them overwhelmed. I want them scrambling to keep up. You got it?”

“Yes, Gilly!” they shouted, louder this time.

“Alright. Let’s knock those Massholes out of the series tonight!”

He clapped his hands together and the team did too, rising to their feet and shouting their agreement. Dom roared and let the excitement fill him, fueling him for the game ahead.

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