Page 30 of Reckless On Ice

Now, if only I could get him to talk me up for the game against Boston because that shit is eating me alive.

My phone pings with another text.

Knox: You’re going to crush Boston tonight. Don't let them get in your head. Show them what they’re missing and that you’re better off without them.

Well, shit.

Three goals. My former teammates have sunk three past me already, and my head is buzzing with the sound of the goal horn that normally would be incredible to hear, yet is salt in the wound tonight.

“Looks like we traded you for a draft pick just in time. You’ve really lost your edge, Kingsy,” Miller chirps as he skates into the crease following Rogers's latest goal. Matt Miller and I were friends, and here he is, chirping at me not six months after we played together last.

Campbell pushes Miller out of the crease, giving me space to take a breath and deal with letting in another goal. “Fuck off, Miller. You haven’t scored. You don't get to run your mouth,” he says, getting into the smaller forward’s face. Campbell has been quick to defend me in each game, playing his role of enforcer when needed, and it feels good to see my new teamhave my back as well as Boston used to.

Westy skates up and hits my leg pad with his stick. “Don't let them get to you, Kingsy. We have two. We’ll tie it up and get ahead. We’re not letting Boston win tonight.”

Monty follows Westy and pulls my helmet into his. “Bring it back. You’re better than this. Don't think about what’s happened, only what you have ahead of you, and that’s stopping more shots and being our backbone.” He slaps my helmet encouragingly and grunts.

I appreciate their motivation because this shit is hard. Boston is a phenomenal team, I know for a fact as I was part of it for so long. It’s hard to play against a team that works as such a well-oiled unit. I push up my mask and shake the sweat out of my face as I grab water. How are we supposed to get past them when they work so well together? Actually, I may be able to use some of the knowledge I picked up in my decade with the team to exploit the few weaknesses they have.

“Hey, Monty,” I call before he can skate back to center ice for the face-off. He turns and skates closer. “Watch Hodgins on defense. He tends to get lazy on the left, leaving a pocket perfect to slip into. Tell Westy to pass to you if he gets the puck, and make sure you get into that spot. I know Upton’s weaknesses,” I tell him. Upton was my goalie tandem partner and is now their number one, the goalie Boston kept when they traded me to Atlanta. “He’s slow to react to dekes, and you can get it past him if you take it around the back. He focuses too hard on what’s in front of you.” I pass along theinformation to my captain, knowing he’ll do what he can if they get the chance. Monty nods in understanding and skates off to huddle with Westin and Chad before they set up for the face-off.

The Hydras win the face-off, Westy tipping the puck back to Chad, who pushes it forward as Boston comes at them hot. He passes back to Rook when there’s no clear forward opening, and Rook gets it to Westy, who sees Monty in the pocket I told him about. Westy fires the puck over to Monty, who charges toward the net. Upton is on high alert, waiting for the shot, and the defenders are working to keep our team apart. Monty fakes a shot at Upton’s glove side, sending the big goalie lunging to his left, only to slide the puck back between his legs with his stick and flip it over the goalie’s shoulder as he skates past. The lamp lights and Upton throws his stick down in frustration as the score ties. It was a shot you don't see often, happening so quickly I have to look up to the Jumbotron to watch the replay as Monty enjoys his celly at the other end of the ice, and the guys join him.

I squirt water through my mask as the players reset. A tied score feels better than being behind, but there’s more pressure than ever to score again and to keep Boston from getting any other points. I quickly scan the crowd as I tip my head back, and that’s when I see the sign.

Kingsy, you’re not our king anymore. We’re up with Upton. Get bent!

Ouch. I shouldn't be surprised to see it; this happens allthe time when players are traded, but it still hurts after all the years I gave this team and the fans. Get bent, huh? How about we win this thing and shut up all those naysayers with their signs and my former teammates with their chirps. Now I have even more to prove. I resettle my stick and adjust my glove and blocker. Let’s fucking do this.

The rest of the period is a bloodbath. Both teams are battling for the puck, players flying into the boards and starting fights when play gets a bit too rough. Campbell gets the puck and sees Miller skating for him, clearly looking for a body check. Campbell ducks, throwing his shoulder into Miller’s stomach and lifting, sending Miller tumbling over his back and onto the ice instead. But that gets the attention of two other Boston players, who meet him in the corner, both players checking him brutally as they fight for the puck. Campbell drops to his knees on the ice, and Boston takes possession, skating back toward me. How the refs don’t call that is beyond me, but I don't have time to argue the point when I have every Boston player on the ice barreling down on me. Coach calls a line change, sending Nico and Davy onto the ice for Rook and Campbell, and they’re hustling to get back to defend our zone, but Boston is locked in and passing fluidly.

It all flashes through my mind in an instant, like it was meant to return. Miller favors glove-side shots but will occasionally aim for the five-hole, trying to sneak it between my legs. Rogers knows I’m weaker over my left shoulder and already took advantage of that once tonight, so he’s probablygoing to try it again. Hodgins is a mean fucker who likes to skate right into the crease before firing off a shot once I’m stretched out to block his fake.

I follow the progression of their play, watching the passes and knowing where it will go next like clockwork. This is a play they’ve drilled a million times before, I can defend this. When Hodgins predictably skates right up into the crease and takes the pass from Rogers, I throw myself over his stick and smother the puck before he can make the shot. It results in him kneeing the shit out of my mask and tumbling over my body into the goal, but I stopped the fucking puck.

I untangle myself from Hodgins and hold the puck for the ref. I stop every shot Boston takes the rest of the game, like I can read their playbook. We manage to score one more goal to win against my former team. Leaving the arena from the visitors' side doesn't feel so bad after that.

Sixteen

Ryder

The photos and videos are done, and the jersey is super nice. Pride Night is here, and no matter my mixed feelings, I’m committed to this thing. Knox was right. I have to say fuck you to the people who will judge and give my attention to the causes that matter.

“Hey, you’re up,” Knox says when I wander into the kitchen after my nap, looking to get my pre-game ritual started. He’s standing by the stove, shirtless, with a dish towel thrown over his shoulder, looking like he stepped right out of some culinary porn set, plating something that smells really fucking good.

“Yes, Chef,” I say before I can stop myself. My voice is rough and gravelly from sleep, and apparently, I’m not fully awakeyet to be flirting with him like that. I run my hands through my hair and yawn. It takes me a few minutes to truly wake up after a midday nap, but I’ll get there.

He chuckles but mercifully lets my slip go. “I made pasta for you. Chicken parmesan with rigatoni.” He moves over to the island and sets the plate of pasta and chicken down next to a place setting of silverware and a cloth napkin.

I look up quickly, suddenly more awake now. “Why would you do that?”

Knox looks away, biting his lip against a shy smile before he answers. “I saw you ordered it last time you had a home game. I know goalies are even weirder about your pre-game rituals than most hockey players. You probably have the same meal every time. Hope that’s okay.” He gives me a look I can only call hopeful. Fuck. For an incredibly secure man, he sure looks good when he’s fishing for approval.

He made my pre-game meal, the one he was right about me having before every game. We haven't crossed paths much lately with our travel schedules. I think this is the first home game he’s been around for. I have a methodical pre-game ritual that I follow. I wake up at the same time, have the same breakfast before morning skate, come home to nap, and then have the same pre-game meal before heading back to the arena. It also includes the same routine of a leisurely ride on an exercise bike, visualizations, and putting my gear on in the same order. Left side first, always.

For Knox to have picked up on something like what food Iordered based on my leftovers from the last game, and then to make it for me is huge. It’s a simple act that means so much. I can even let his weird goalie comment slide…because he’s also right about that. We’re an eccentric bunch of weirdos with more superstitions than other players and quirks that have some calling us psychos. I think I’m perfectly normal, I just have a prescriptive order for things I like. Nothing wrong with that.

“Oh, I got you a roll of rainbow tape for your stick. Thought it might be nice for Pride Night. You don’t have to use it or anything,” he says, gesturing at a roll of tape on the island before running a hand across the back of his neck.

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