Page 12 of Lucky Laces
Like I’m a fucking baby.
I shove that down, nod again, and watch as he peels off for the face-off dot, King lining up on the far side of the ice.
I find the hashmarks, take my position, and brace myself for the contact that’s going to come at puck drop.
The whistle trills.
I clench my teeth together, grinding them tightly against my mouth guard, ignoring the bolt of pain in my jaw as I get ready for the drop.
Before that can happen, the fucker from the other team I’m standing next to slashes me, and I bite back a curse, the sting burning through my hands.
But I ignore that too.
And focus.
King nods at me.
Cam settles his stick on the ice.
And…
The puck drops.
I shove forward, thankful that all my extra time in the weight room of late means I can do at least one thing right—knocking the asshole on the other team to the ice.
That done, I don’t stop moving, just keep skating, keep grinding, keep battling my way to the net and parking my ass in front of the goalie.I get shoved and punched, slashed and crosschecked, but I just dig in and don’t allow myself to be moved.
At least I have size to my advantage.
And it’s something that Cam uses when he wins the puck back to King, who tips it to our defenseman at the blue line and then cuts hard to the corner, drawing the center on the other team with him.
This gives King—and Rhodes, the other D at the line—some space to move, to get into a better position to receive a pass, to draw the other team toward them and free up lanes to the net.
It all happens in a matter of seconds, and because I’m not thinking about it too intensely, not worried about doing anything except keeping my ass out of the crease and in front of the goalie…and not getting beaned in the ass by a shot.
Well, the ass shot would be tolerable if it deflected off me and into the goal.
Or off my ass and to one of my teammates for them to put in.
Either way would work for me.
But that’s not what happens.
Cam cuts behind the net, scooping up a hard pass that Rhodes sends from the point, corralling it on the blade of his stick then flicking it over to King who slides in behind me at the back door.
But the puck doesn’t make it there.
The goalie gets a piece of it and the puck ricochets up, faster than my eye can track, certainly faster than I can react as it flies toward my face.
“Fuck,” I hiss as pain explodes across my cheek, followed quickly by a gush of warm liquid.
Of blood.
It drips onto my jersey, onto my gloves, onto the ice.
Onto…the puck.
I react instinctively, shoving my stick at it and…missing.
