Page 17 of Reckless On Ice

He points a finger at my face for the taunt. “Fuck you, asshole. Kurt Russell is the G.O.A.T. in that movie, and he’s one of the manliest men there are, so don’t call it a chick flick, and put some respect on it.”

“Kurt Russell? Maybe if you named Escape From New York, or even fucking Miracle because you’re a hockey fan boy or something, but Overboard?” I say. He gives me a withering stare before I continue. “Fine, the fish lives in your room. I don't want to smell the weird fish water in the kitchen.”

He shakes his head. “No way, we need to get a tank with a filter that runs all night so it’ll fuck with my sleep. Goldie Spawn will stay in the living room instead.”

I look down but can’t fight a smile. This fucking man. I swear he will be the death of me, whether from anger or exasperation. “Whatever, man, as long as you’re the one taking care of it.”

“Her, Knox, Goldie Spawn is a HER. Learn to use your damn pronouns.”

“Jesus.” I can't stop the chuckle that escapes me. He’s too fucking funny, even if he’s being a shit on purpose and usingthe lessons I’ve been trying to teach him back on me. At least his humor is funny in this case and not hurtful. “If only you cared as much about how you came across in interviews and what you say when upset as you do about this damn fish, you’d be set,” I say, throwing up my hands.

“Have the interviewers ask me about Goldie Spawn instead of game losses, and I think it would be fine,” he muses seriously.

Ten

Ryder

Olympus Arena is packed. The league commissioner and a bunch of rich and powerful people are in attendance to watch The Hydras' first home game. Not only do we have the typical ceremonial puck drop, but there’s even some crazy shit going down with the owners, Hayes, Payton, and Zander Olsen before the game starts. The Olsens are billionaire brothers who decided to bring hockey back to Atlanta, build a multimillion-dollar sports and entertainment complex, and, I guess, get to shoot pucks at me as part of the public relations team’s plan to entertain the crowd, given this isn’t a city known for hockey fans. Football, baseball, and even basketball, sure. We’ll have to win over their loyalty, which is where myparticipation comes in.

I wasvoluntoldto defend the goal as the Olsens all took shots at me. It wasn’t explicitly stated that I had to let them score, but I got the idea that blocking their shots could be seen as unsportsmanlike, as this is all in good fun. I was also told that my part in this was to help revamp my image, and I wouldn’t be able to decline, given that they have me on some kind of disciplinary action plan with Mark’s help. So here I am, suited up, ready for the game, and I have the owners’ pack of kids sending pucks flying down the ice with mini sticks, though not necessarily in my direction. Anything that gets close, I let them by because that’s what you do for kids. They’re pretty cute.

Suddenly, one hellion of a toddler hurls his stick at me, which I manage to block. He kicks the puck and screams like a fucking banshee as he rushes toward me, launching himself at my leg pad and hanging on like a monkey. He’s beating a tiny fist against my pads like I wrecked his life, and honestly, I feel for him and know this sort of expression of emotion. I try to gently shake him off and hear cheering and laughing from the crowd. This was so not in the cards. His dad, Zander, hurries up to us and pries the child off my pads, throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Sorry, man. Axel is a terror on a good day, but give him anything resembling a weapon, and suddenly, it’s war. I didn’t expect him to take it out on you.”

I tap my glove on my leg pad. “At least I’m prepared for it. Get a stick into his hands, and put that kid on skates. You’llhave a real bruiser on the ice in no time.”

Zander laughs and pats the toddler on the back. “Maybe we’ll hold off on the knife shoes and wooden death stick for this one.” I grimace at the truth in his words.

Once Axel is safe with his mom and the rest of the family, the billionaire brothers are squaring up with me like they’ve waited their whole lives to take on an NHL goalie and test their luck. Well, fuck you very much, you’re not scoring on my net, no matter your net worth.

I easily bat away Zander’s shot with a bored sweep of my stick just to play with him because of Axel’s antics. Hayes shoots next, and while his form is good, he sends it straight to center mass, and I easily deflect. As the final brother, Payton, takes a stick for his turn, I skate out of the goal to his girlfriend, Ainsley. The last part of this pre-game show is a little something special I’m helping with. I hand her my stick.

“What are you doing?” she asks, looking around, confused.

It’s a pretty cute proposal idea, so I’m happy to help with it. If it helps rehabilitate my image so people forget about the viral video of me, which now has four million views, even better.

I lift my mask. “Everyone thinks that the Olsens aren’t making their shots because I’m in the net. I think you need to give your man hell and stand in for me. Show all these fans it’s not who’s in the net that matters, it’s their poor shooting skills keeping them from scoring.”

I give her a wink and put my blocker on her other hand before pushing her toward the goal. I flip a puck to Payton andskate after her. I make sure she’s positioned in the net, show her how to stand, and where to put the stick.

I move to the back of the goal and let Payton do the rest of the work. The puck I gave him is all marked up in silver Sharpie, telling Ainsley to look up, so when it stops at her feet, she finds Payton on his knee with a ring. Of course, she says yes to him, and they look so fucking happy. Watching them hug and kiss, sprawled on the ice in front of thousands of people, gives me a new feeling of longing that lodges in my chest and pokes at something like loneliness I hadn’t realized lived there already. I’ve never thought of settling down all that much, but I have to admit, coming home to another person has been kind of nice, especially when he does all the cooking. The theatrics settle when the Olsen family clears the ice, and we finally get the game started.

I sweep my stick along the painted lines of the crease, scraping ice away as the team sets up for the face-off. My body buzzes with awareness, watching the puck as the players quickly jostle for possession. Chad takes control and passes to Westin as they push down the ice. Our captain, Sebastian Montenegro, Monty, opens up, and Westy passes to him. A winger from Colorado steals the puck, and the play turns back toward me. Our defensemen, Rook and Campbell, skate like their asses are on fire to get back into position, but Colorado has the advantage with the turnover and quickly passes the puck back behind the goal to a waiting player on the other side.

I drop to butterfly and slide to the other post, blockingthe corner as I track the puck and where these players are to anticipate where a shot could come from. Campbell and a player from Colorado get into a puck battle in the corner before Campbell manages to flick the puck out to Chad, who works to get it out of our zone.

Fucking Smith from Colorado has a screen on me, keeping me from having a clear field of vision as the game moves across the ice in front of us. He loved putting his ass in my face any chance he got when I played in Boston, too. I shove him out of the crease to give myself space so I can see. It’s a habit I have that I don't even think about. If a player has a problem with me getting physical when they’re in my goal and wants to get in my face about it, my team has always had my back and shuts it down. I just don't know what my new team will do. Hopefully, they feel like most teams that the other team shouldn’t touch their goalie, but we’re not that tight yet.

Smith pushes back into the crease, letting his elbow ram into my face mask as he moves across the goal, following the play. This motherfucker wants to test my patience tonight. As a new team, we have something to prove, and no one has respect for us until we show them we’re worthy of it. I sweep my stick at Smith’s skates, and his feet fly out from under him as he goes down in a heap on the ice. Finally, I can see what’s happening in front of me, and it’s a break in play as the refs blow a whistle and position for another face-off.

Unfortunately, a few Colorado players watched the exchange and skate toward me like they’re going to dosomething about it. Campbell and Rook see the Colorado players and pursue, with Monty, Chad, and Westy turning to see where everyone is going and immediately joining the exodus down the ice.

“The fuck, man,” Jonesy, a Colorado forward—and mouthy bastard—calls as the ref blows a whistle further down the ice.

“Keep your dogs on a leash, Jonsey. He can’t be smashing me in the face if he doesn't want to get it back,” I say, standing to my full height and skating forward.

“Stay in your fucking goal and don't run your damn mouth, Kingsy. You don’t have a team worth shit, and no one’s here to back you up this time,” Jonsey calls as he comes to a stop, sending a snow shower onto my pads, and pushes my chest so I slide back toward the goal. That’s rude.

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