Page 32 of Penalty Zone

The puck makes it into my half, and with a shift of their left wing’s eyes, I know he’s going to pass to the center, who will immediately dish it to the right wing. I’m ready for it, but before the right wing gets the pass, Kenney intercepts it and races down the ice.

I’m ecstatic and disappointed I didn’t get my first save. Getting the first save under my belt sets the game on the right path. The anxiety presses on me from the inside out, making my pads tight. It’s only a matter of time before I make a save, but we’ve already played ten minutes, and it feels like forever.

Sensing Leo’s stare boring into me, my eyes automatically find his. He lifts his chin, and it settles me. Later, I’ll unpack how strange it is that, as screwy as things are between us, he willingly fulfills my needs.

I laser-focus on the puck and track each tiny movement that gives away each player’s intent.

They smash into the boards and battle for the puck. Boston’s winger wins it, and I’m certain the puck will shoot over my left shoulder. I’m correct and catch it without a problem.

My first save of the night. I inhale deeply and exhale slowly.

“Quick hands.” Kenney skates into the crease, surprising me with a bear hug.

“Way to set the tone.” King smacks my helmet.

My teammates on the ice congratulate me, and each word of praise increases my resolve to win for these men. I roll my shoulders, ready for whatever comes next.

Again, my eyes are drawn to Leo, who has a knowing look and a wide grin. He looks younger somehow, like he could skate out here and not miss a step. I’d like to think I have something to do with that. Helping him have some fun.

Hockey’s a competitive sport, and winning is worshipped like a god, but I couldn’t play if I wasn’t having fun.

Boston’s out for blood, but their anger makes them sloppy, especially O’Keefe. He’s sent to the sin bin, and Ace scores on the power play.

“Ace right in the five-hole,” I shout, and celebrate by clanging my pipes to cheer us on.

It’s one of those nights where everything seems to go our way. The team is in sync, and we’re finding holes in their defense to score.

Their left wing comes at me on a breakaway, and I’m certain he’s going to shoot, but he flicks his wrist to their center and Ithrow my body in front of the puck and drop on it so they don’t get another shot.

Relief flows through me. Even though I miscalculated, I made the save.

At the end of the first period, we’re up by three and they’re not on the board yet.

Mason greets me at the wall with a hug and a bottle of water.

Leo takes me by the shoulders, and although it’s impossible, I swear I can feel the heat of his hands stirring my blood. “You’re doing a great job anticipating and getting into position. You went the extra step to ensure they didn’t score on the rebound by covering the puck. Good work.”

At least when it comes to hockey, I don’t feel inferior to him. I’m glad he can’t see auras because mine’s bright red, giving away how passionate he makes me feel. It’s not only about him, but his love for the game combines with mine and multiplies. It’s heady, and there’s a connection between us, swirling in the air.

I return to the locker room, roused from my Leo bubble.

Chapter 15

Leo

Caleb’s playing fantastic hockey. I’m in awe of his instincts and awareness of players and the puck, which makes my comment to him about needing medication all the worse. Excellence has always been a turn-on for me, and it’s difficult to tamp that down.

When I gave him positive feedback, his face lit up brighter than the overhead lights. He could light the stadium with his megawatt smile.

And he’s having fun. The crowd senses it and chants his name, filling the arena with exuberance.

I’m not sure I took the time to enjoy hockey while I was playing. Hockey was a job I excelled at and viewed as a business, not a source of enjoyment. But Caleb celebrates the small victories and the goals with his guys.

We smashed the lines between personal and professional, and finding my way back to reserved and objective isinsurmountable. I’ve tasted the forbidden fruit and am hungrier than ever.

“Get ready,” I shout unnecessarily. If anything, my voice distracts him for a fraction of a second.

Mason gives me a strange glance, and I don’t blame him. I’ve preached ‘Win or lose, keep your game face on until you get in the locker room.’ My game face is gone, and I’ve never yelled or cheered at games before.

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