Page 4 of Slap Shot

Lucy touches my cheek and frowns.You look sad.

I’m okay, sweetheart.Should we start getting dinner ready?

Can we do hot dogs?

Of course we can, I tell her, not the least bit wounded she doesn’t want to eat any of the dishes I’ve mapped out in my planner for the week.

My daughter squeals and climbs out of my lap. She takes off for the kitchen, and my mom touches my shoulder.

“You’re going to figure it out, honey,” she tells me, and I nod.

I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants for the last six years, and I always figure it out.

I can do it a little longer.

TWO

HUDSON

“Mr. Hudson?How does it feel to be the second-best player on the Stars?”

I look up from the stick I’m taping and narrow my eyes at Buster Jenkins, one of the young athletes attending kids’ camp today.

“How much did you get paid to say that, Buster?” I ask.

He shrugs, then yells, “Ten bucks. That’s enough money for five ice cream cones,” as he skates to the other side of the rink to join the rest of the campers on their ten-minute snack break.

A figure looming in the tunnel leading to our locker room catches my attention. For years now, management has released United Airlines Arena to the Junior Stars Camp organizers, but the locker rooms are off-limits to anyone who doesn’t wear an NHL jersey. I smirk when I recognize who it is.

“Was honeymooning in Bali not enough fun for you?” I call out, and several heads turn. I give it a minute before my right winger is bombarded by a dozen mini fans. “You had to come home and bribe these kids to try and say you’re a better player than me?”

“Nah. Just missed you, Huddy Boy.” Maverick Miller flashes a grin and skates over to join me at center ice. He doles out acouple of high fives, flips his stick in the air, winds up, and sends the puck at our feet flying straight into the goal. “Thanks for covering for me this weekend.”

“With training camp starting next week, I figured I needed one last rip on the ice that didn’t involve Coach yelling at us.” I snort and flip my hat backward. The camp kids have returned to happily shoving orange slices in their mouths, and I figure I can extend their break by a few minutes to catch up with my best friend. “Can’t believe summer is over. I guess that’s what happens when you win the most sought-after trophy in professional sports. When did you get home?”

“Damn right.” He taps my fist with his. “And we got in this morning. I would’ve liked to spend a few extra days in Bali, but Emmy demanded we get back so she can get into a routine before the season starts.” A dopey, dreamy smile settles on Maverick’s face. “God. I love that woman.”

Emmy—Emerson—Hartwell is his wife and another one of my best friends.

She’s the first woman to play in the NHL, and Maverick fell head over heels for her when she was on the DC Stars with us. The pair are the definition of opposites attract, but he wore her down enough to earn a second of her attention. Through a weird twist of fate, they started dating, fell in love, and got married in Vegas last season.

“The whole world knows how you feel about that woman.” I toss my tape into the empty players’ box and fire off a shot toward the goal. It hits the left post and works its way into the net. “Did you get any training done while you were gone, or were you too busy enjoying the five-star all-inclusive resort?”

“I did plenty of training.” He hits another puck, but this shot goes wide right. “Long walks on the beach. Bench pressing my weight in chicken satay and nasi goreng. That counts, right?”

“I can’t wait to watch you collapse when we’re back to work. The overspeed drills are going to kick your ass.” I grin. “Do you remember how to lace your skates, or do you need help?”

“You want to go, Hayes?” Maverick tosses his stick on the ice and rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie. “Let’s race from goal to goal, and I’ll mop the floor with you. We both know I’m faster.”

I’m tempted to take him up on that offer. He might be my best friend, but I also like to humble the hell out of him when I can. Watching him lose in a lap around the rink would make my entire year.

Especially in front of a group of kids.

“I spent all summer in the weight room. You’re over there huffing and puffing, Miller, and you’re not even moving. Admit you’re slow, and we can put this to rest.”

“Never.” He glances at the campers, giving them an enthusiastic wave. “What do you have going on after this finishes up?”

“I’m heading to the bookstore this afternoon, then it’s back to searching for a chef who won’t quit after two weeks.”

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