Page 70 of Drop the Mitts

André’s lungs burned even though he hadn’t smoked for a week. His thighs were on fire, though that could’ve been because of the impromptu game of mini sticks they played in the hotel hallway after the water park.

He was too old for doubleheaders, they all were, but not one of them said a damn word of complaint. They’d earned a bye in the morning with their season record, then won their first game two to one in overtime. Now, the crowd inside the small Edmonton arena sounded like they’d been chugging gas station energy drinks and screaming into a blender.

Every guy on the Snowballs’ bench gripped their stick like it owed them a safe word. The team from Winnipeg, Prairie Fire—which sounded more like a hot sauce than a hockey team—was fast. Chippy. Their first line had two guys fresh out of juniors,and damn if they weren’t skating like the scouts were in the stands.

André wiped his glove across his face, shoving his helmet back down over his sweat-slicked hair. His jersey clung to his ribs. His mouthguard tasted like bile and Gatorade.

He loved this shit.

“C’mon boys. Play from your balls,” Sean snapped.

André slapped Country’s shoulder. “It’s okay, I can lend you mine.”

They both jumped over the boards and set up in Winnipeg’s zone fast—Curtis digging into the corner, Country screening low, André circled high, hunting.

The puck bounced off a bad deflection. Winnipeg’s D whiffed it. Just a split-second of chaos, a messy half-second where everyone shifted wrong, and André saw his shot.

He jumped on it. Cut inside. Dragged it left. One defender bit hard. André pulled it through his skates like Zegras, kicked it up, and flipped it backdoor. Tyler’s slap was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

Buzzed past the tower.

Bar down.

Game.

The Snowballs’s bench erupted. André didn’t even hear the buzzer, only Sean’s string of curses, Curtis’s screaming, and Boyd howling from the crease.

Country tackled him into the glass. “That shit was pretty, Leclerc!”

André threw his gloves, tossed his helmet. The team mobbed him and Tyler in the corner. He skated the victory lap with his jersey flapping loose, adrenaline buzzing so hard it felt like his veins were plugged into the scoreboard.

Snowballs: 6

Prairie Fire: 5

Tournament Champs.

“Making me look good out there, bud.” Tyler pulled him into a hug.

“Someone has to.” He smacked him on the back, and they made their way to the bench. Before he sat, André looked up into the stands and found her. Scarf. Navy coat. Grace stood cheering with the others, her hands cupped around her mouth.

“Seems like she’s into hockey all of a sudden.” Tyler grinned. “Lock that down, Leclerc, or get the hell away from her.”

_____

André’s legs were buckets of cement by the time he made it back to the Fantasyland Hotel. Every muscle ached. His ears were still ringing. He’d downed half a protein bar on the ride back and had a Gatorade sloshing somewhere near his spleen. The boys were heading for the hotel bar to “rehydrate,” which was a generous word for whatever the hell Suraj was ordering.

They’d pushed for him to stay, but he’d begged off muttering something about indigestion. He hadn’t told them the real reasons. One who was currently—hopefully—on the other side of his hotel room door. The second sitting in the pocket of his hockey bag.

He’d found the pack of cigarettes there while searching for his tape. Didn’t realize he’d left one in there when he purged everything the week prior. If he stayed at the bar, he wasn’t going to make it. He’d grab one and take it outside within fifteen minutes. But if he went upstairs, even saw her face, he thought he could get through. The strategy had worked twice already.

Grace hadn’t been at the bar, which wasn’t a surprise, considering. He doubted he’d catch her awake. The ceremony had run late, and it was nearly midnight. But some dumbass part of himself couldn’t stop imagining tapping the key at the door and stepping inside to find her reading in bed, hair messy from her pillow, her lips parting as she turned her head.

But, nope.

He opened the door to total darkness. Quiet.

He turned on his phone flashlight and carefully set his bag in front of the door, locking the dead bolt. André padded toward the bed.

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