Page 22 of Pucking Tangled
Luca walked past him and paused for a beat, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sweet-talking your gear, again?”
Waylon didn’t look up. “Left elbow pad is moody before big games.”
Across the room, Casey smirked. “You say that like it’s normal.”
“It is normal. For me. Keeps the chaos out, ya know,” Waylon replied, dead serious.
Owen chuckled from his stall. “Just be glad he doesn’t smudge his helmet with lavender and sage. Played with a guy a few years ago that walked around smelling like a yoga retreat.”
Waylon finally looked up, unbothered. “Lavenderiscalming.”
Luca muttered, “Maybe I should start talking to my gloves.”
Waylon finished taping his stick—five wraps toward the toe, no more, no less—and gave it a firm tap on the floor. Once. Twice. A third time.
Then he stood, eyes calm, focused. “Ready.”
“Freak,” Casey teased with admiration in his voice.
“Superstitious freak,” Luca added, repeating Waylon’s taping ritual.
But Waylon just smirked faintly and headed for the tunnel. “Let’s go win us a game, boys.”
Luca
A little less than three hours later, the guys skated off the ice and headed through the tunnel to the locker room.
Game one was in the books with a victory for the Barn Raisers.
Covered in sweat, bruised and grinning like a bunch of fools; they poured into the locker room and started peeling off their jerseys.
It wasn’t a pretty game at first, but a win was a win and they’d just taken Game 1 on the road against Charleston.
“Whooo! That’s what I’m talking about!” Luca yelled, tossing his jersey into the laundry cart. He was amped up and riding the high of his very first NHL playoff win.
His wildest dreams felt like they really were coming true.
Casey tossed his gloves into his locker before wrapping Owen in a bear hug while the man was trying to yank off his chest protector.
Owen grinned and shook his head.
“You saw that third-period forecheck!” Casey boasted, breathless. “Tell me that wasn’t sexy.” Caught up in the moment, he kissed Owen’s cheek.
Owen coughed through a laugh. “You were practically breakdancing in the neutral zone.”
“Still got the assist.”
“And a tripping penalty,” Luca added.
“Details.” Casey smirked, finally letting go of Owen.
Waylon walked in last, helmet under his arm, face flushed but expression cool—until Luca popped open a Gatorade and sprayed it directly at his chest.
Waylon blinked, dripping. “I’m gonna murder you.”
“You can try,” Luca grinned, dodging behind a row of lockers.
Someone turned up the music. A classic pump-up anthem—probably on Casey’s playlist—roared through the speakers as the team finished peeling off gear and trading highlights.
