Page 27 of Shift Change

“I don’t know. Don’t care.” There were far more urgent matters at hand.

“Look and see who’s messaging you.”

“Why?”

“My phone’s in my room, and I’m afraid we overslept.”

I grabbed my cell off the nightstand and nearly had a heart attack. “Shit! It’s almost five. Harpy says we better haul ass up there.”

“Goddammit!”

“How long will it take?”

“Twenty, thirty minutes.”

“Fuck.” I was halfway out of bed when he grabbed my arm.

“Wait.”

I turned to face him, and he moved close.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” he said, “but I’ve never been a coward about trying new things. I don’t want to start now, so… about what we almost did?”

“Yeah?”

“I still want to.”

“We don’t have time.”

“It’ll have to be later, but I want to share that with you.”

“Me too.”

He raised a hand to my cheek. “That was a great nap.”

“Yeah, it sure was.” I didn’t trust myself to say anything more.

He glanced at the door, then back at me. “We have to get dressed. Move like lightning, okay?”

Before I could answer, he was gone, leaving me wondering what the fuck was happening to both of us.Goddamn. Fucking goddamn.

* * *

Thankfully, Harpy had talked Criswell into letting the guys kick a soccer ball around before the pregame meeting, buying us a little time. Breathless and sweaty, Holky and I burst into the locker room as they were coming back in from the kick-around. Gabe shot us a grin and stalled everyone long enough for us to change into gym shorts and T-shirts before we all filed into the meeting room.

Criswell’s scowl hit me like a slap the second he saw me. My stomach clenched, but he didn’t say a word; he let the weight of his glare do the talking. Relief flared for half a second—at least he hadn’t ripped us a new one before my first game—but it was short-lived. If anything, now I was under even more pressure to prove myself. I couldn’t afford to give Criswell a reason to think he’d made a mistake bringing me up from Syracuse.

I’d pictured my first NHL game a million different ways—some of them realistic, others ridiculous—but I hadn’t imagined it would feel like this. The crowd at Warrior Arena was electric, buzzing with the kind of energy that made the ice feel alive beneath my skates. Chicago had fans everywhere, and as the defending Stanley Cup champs, we had a big following of our own. As a result, the arena was packed.

The game exploded into a feisty start. Harpy won the first faceoff clean and sent the puck my way. I took off toward Chicago’s goal, but one of their defensemen leveled me so hard I slid across the ice and slammed into the boards. I wasn’t hurt, but by the time I got back on my feet, Brody—backing up our line—was already yelling at the guy who’d hit me.

The refs moved in, but the shouting hit a boil. Chicago’s guy dropped his gloves and swung first. Brody dodged, hit back, and dropped him. Then he pinned him to the ice, yelling until the refs pulled them apart. They went to the box for five minutes each, leaving us in a 4-on-4.

Both teams worked hard, but the period dragged until Chicago buried a rebound at the twelve-minute mark. We answered on a power play—Harpy scored the goal—and hit the intermission tied at 1–1.

Early in the second, Chicago scored again off a brutal turnover. We stayed dry until Holky’s line pulled us even a minute before intermission, a slick sequence ending with Abdulov rifling one from the blue line while Blunt screened the goalie.

The score was 2–2. After two full periods, all I had to show for it were burning legs and a stomach full of frustration.

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