Page 34 of Lovesick
The staccato thump of my heart is a war drum, and the breath that fluctuates between the grid of my helmet curls into the frosted atmosphere like vapor. If Merit hadn’t come to see me—or, more accurately, if I hadn’t ambushed her—I would probably be a lot more nervous right now. I want to make Coach proud. I want to makeMeritproud.
The visiting team’s introductions end, and the announcer is already on to the Mustangs. Treacle-slow, one by one, my teammates who are a part of the first line are called to the ice, curtailed by excited cheers from the stands. When Harlan issummoned, I give him a supportive clap on the back before he speeds off to soak in the all-encompassing praise.
Then my name is broadcasted over the speakers, and I exit the tunnel, making my first debut as captain. When the blades of my skates touch the ice, I know I’m home.
If I thought that the crowd was loud before, they’re close to breaking the goddamn sound barrier now. I navigate my way to the goal line as a crescendo rattles my eardrums, finally glancing up at the Jumbotron to see my pixelated face plastered across the screen.
The procession continues until every player has been introduced, and finally, the face-off is set to commence. I’m up against the Wildebeests’ center. He has a similar stature to mine, but what he lacks in muscle mass, he makes up for in litheness.
I’ve heard about the Wyoming Wildebeests. They’re a pretty formidable team, but their goaltending is poor, they rely too much on their offense, and they have weak penalty killing. A team that can’t balance defense and offense will eventually crumble, and I’m counting on them to overestimate themselves when the third period comes around.
I know my team, and I know we’re going to take home a win tonight.
I ready my stick in front of my adversary, a current of energy whipping through my body like an electric wire. There’s a debilitating thirst inside me that won’t be slaked until I see those goal lights flash red.
When the referee drops the puck, I barely have time to register what’s happening before I swoop it up and start charging for the Wildebeests’ goal. An incoming defenseman is headed straight for me, but I deke at the last minute, saving both my ass and the disc from our opponent’s clutches. Hypothetically, I could probably score without passing right now if Iwanted to, but to guarantee a shot, I whack the puck over to Harlan, knowing that he has a better vantage point.
While the Wildebeests—still dispersed and recovering from my redirection—hustle over to Harlan, he pulls a one-timer and aims for the bottom right-hand corner of the goal, performing a perfect slap shot as the puck skids past the outside of the goalie’s leg pad.
The net billows back from the impact, the goal lights turn a menacing red, and airborne ice shavings dance in the scintillating rays of the high-intensity lights. The bleachers come alive with screams of elation from the fans, and the rest of my teammates barrel into Harlan, creating a circle around him and shouting our dominance over the other team.
“With fourteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds on the clock, scoring for the Minnesota Mustangs is number thirteen, Harlan Beaumont, assisted by number twenty-eight, Crew Calloway!” the announcer bellows.
1-0, baby.
When the puck is back in play, the Wildebeests have possession of it, and they all flock to our goal, leaving their defensive zone completely bare. I’m closing in on number thirty-eight’s tail, attempting a sweep check for the puck, but this motherfucker has some insanely fast reflexes because he evades my attack with ease.
I bite back a string of expletives, feeling the burn in my thighs when I accelerate forward, determined to at least catch him off guard and force him to pass. Skates are whizzing, sticks are knocking against one another, and the puck is slingshotting across the ice like a stray bullet.
I’m too far behind to intercept, but thankfully, Sutton storms number thirty-eight, slamming him up against the boards and evoking gasps from the spectators. The puck, now abandoned, is a beacon to every nearby player, and we all rush for it, only for another Wildebeest to pick up right where histeammate left off. At this point, he’s only a few feet from our goal.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Foster bracing himself for a potential shot. With Axel gaining momentum on number sixteen, the player panics and shoots it blindly, allowing Foster the time to analyze the puck’s trajectory. Lowering into a half split, he saves the shot, and the disc twirls out of bounds.
We have ten minutes left in the first period. We’ve got this. The audience is up on their feet, chanting at the top of their lungs and booing the Wildebeests in the same breath. I take a moment to scour the crowd for Merit’s ridiculous opossum sweatshirt. I can’t believe that I’m looking forherwhen I should be looking for the scout.
Don’t get distracted, Crew.
The next face-off, Knox steals the puck, and my Knox-specific homicidal tendencies momentarily slip to the back burner. He chugs forward at an impressive speed—covering a fair amount of distance to the Wildebeests’ goal—and when a rival is sure to snatch the puck, he does a flip pass to me of all people. I don’t have time to wrestle with my shock.
Zipping down the length of the rink and stirring up a vacuum of wind behind me, my grip tightens around my stick in preparation for a wrist shot. The poor goalie looks completely discombobulated, and the subtle movement of his right leg tells me that he probably favors his right side, which means shooting on the left side of the goal will reap a better chance of success. If I aim for the bottom corner, there’s a slot of time where I can get it in before he even has the chance to block it. I need to keep the puck low to the ground.
This is your goal, Merit.
An oppressive heat rises to my head as an anticipatory miasma falls over the jittery arena, and anxiety constricts my heart like overgrown vines. The opposition is tailgating me. Idon’t have the time to weigh the risks. If I want to shoot, I need to do it now.
So, before I get dogpiled by two-hundred-plus pounds of sweaty Wildebeests, I wrench my arm on a diagonal, following through with enough force to send that sucker straight into the net at a velocity that the goalie fails to defend.
Everyone clambers to their feet—screaming, clapping, praising the heavens above. The end of the second period comes to a close, signaled by the deafening buzzer. I break out my best celly, skating around the edge of the rink with my hand cupped behind my ear—goading the crowd to make some noise—then I switch to blowing a kiss to the handful of fans raising up posters and screeching my name.
My teammates form a victory huddle around me, pumping their sticks into the air and hollering like true cavemen. God, I’ll never get over this feeling—of being wanted, of being appreciated, of beinga partof something. But as satisfied as my ego is, I can’t stop thinking about the one person I wish I was celebrating with.
It’s 4-2. We’re down to the last three minutes of the third period. Realistically, there’s only enough time for one team to score a goal, and even if the Wildebeests score, the Mustangs will still take home a win.
With the opposing team lacking a player due to a major penalty, the odds are in our favor, and we’re going to perfect this power play. Sweat drips into my eyes as my quads begin to ache, but I’m ending this night on a high note if it’s the last thing I do.
Harlan has possession of the puck, and with some quick stickhandling, he passes it to Knox, giving him a clear breakaway. But number twenty-two—the Wildebeests’ center—isn’tabout to go down without a fight. I’m not sure if this guy is on steroids or snorted a line of crack before the game, but he somehow manages to shift the pace and skate with the puck straight toward our goal.
Thankfully, both Sutton and Axel remain in their defensive positions to prevent the disc from making it to Foster. I know what number twenty-two is doing—he’s acting out of desperation, and it’s going to cost him the game. While public enemy number one is nearing the two largest guys on our team, the rest of the Wildebeests are stampeding behind him, once again egressing from their defensive zone completely.
