Page 124 of The Alternate Captain
I wriggle off his lap and grab my phone, intending to go for the calendar app. Without hesitating, Johnny pulls his jackettowards him and roots in the pocket for his own notebook. The trusty notebook.
But when I glance down at the screen, there’s a notification that wasn’t there when I checked it earlier.
“New Message Request from...”
I don’t even have to click it to know who it’s from. I have a feeling.
I successfully fended offmy sister on the road trip yesterday.
But how I go an entire pre-game at home avoiding her is anyone’s guess. She’s lurking on the edge of the ice, and every time she looks like she’s about to speak to me, someone else catches her attention or mine. Since we’re making progress in our climb of the league, that’s where my focus is tonight.
Hockey.
One hundred per cent hockey.
At least, that’s what I tell myself, anyway.
I know Kelly is here. And even though I know where the club seats are, I try my hardest not to look in that direction as we skate onto the ice for the intros. And when we line up for the national anthem, I avoid looking then too.
She said she’d be in the bar, but a tiny piece of me wonders if she is actually here. At her seat. Watching.
Fortunately, the position of the benches is in my favour too, so when the puck drops and the clock counts down, I havezero distractions.
The first defensive pair on the ice tonight are Bettsy and Yatesy, and considering the kid’s play style a few weeks ago, I can already see a vast improvement in his game.
I’m watching the play, so I don’t notice Matt Rodgers coming to stand directly behind me, leaning down to talk right into my ear.
“What’s your fucking problem, mate?” he says, his tone laced with rage.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but if you’re not careful, you’ll be my problem soon enough,” I growl back, not shifting my attention away from the ice.
The forward line changes and bodies move away from the bench, clearing some space, and Rodgers sits down next to me, popping out his mouthguard to talk.
“I hear it was you who started shit about me,” he says.
“Regardless of what you heard, you don’t play fucking dirty in my dressing room,” I say, dropping my leg over the boards and hopping onto the ice when my change comes in.
The puck goes out of play, but I skate over to the face-off circle and ready myself.
I’m shoulder to shoulder with Prez for a moment as he takes position, and I talk under my breath, telling him to play back into the neutral a little before we push forward, and he nods, getting himself ready to receive the puck from Liam’s face-off.
It’s a good play for us, resulting in receiving possession of the puck and forcing the opposition to keep their play without a line change. Heavy legs on the ice mean opportunity for us.
By the time my shift is over, I scan the bench for Matt and make sure I hop off the ice at the opposite end of the bench, because I really cannot deal with his attitude right now, considering I’m permanently simmering in a bad mood.
Ever since that day I saw Sarah, I’ve been a wreck. And for once, Justine wasn’t able to help.
I make it the whole way through the first without thinking about Kelly again, or allowing her to be a distraction morelike, and luckily for me Vicky is completely absent during the intermission.
When we return to the ice for the second period, I’m in the starting pair on the blue line. Danny takes the opening face-off and wins, sending the puck my way before I pass it over to Hutch, who’s ready to receive it. He shoots it straight across the ice to Danny, who’s placed himself right at the edge of the ice, and he plucks it up with the blade of his stick and moves it forward.
Hutch has speed, but I’ve got the position, right at the point, and I see Danny look over his shoulder for a second before he sends it through the gap he’s created between his legs. I one-time it in the direction of the net, assuming that Hutch will be ready in time.
But when the red light buzzes, I stare at the opposing netminder for a second, checking that it’s actually gone in. He’s looking around for it, and the puck is jammed right on the edge of the net, but I spot the stripes pointing at the goal line.
Goal.
“Fucking A,” someone shouts, banging my lid, and we hustle around for a group hug.
