Page 74 of Forecheck
Back and forth we went, with Coach shifting around the lines, trying to generate offense where there had so far been none. When we finally converted on a scoring chance about five minutes into the third, I almost wasn’t even on the ice. At that point, my usual confidence in my athleticism was waning. After taking several shifts that were inadvisably longer than normal, my legs and lungs were burning. I was unsure if I could skate another five seconds much less fifteen minutes.
“Jean!” Mitch yelled from behind me. I’d been inches away from getting back on the bench, but I turned to my teammate. Mitch whipped the puck my way from the corner, and the moment it touched my stick, time slowed.
In reality, the whole sequence had taken less than ten seconds, but for me, it was as if someone had hit pause on the game. I could see the entire scene laid out with perfect clarity in front of me.
The second the puck hit my tape, two Tritons players were on me, the rest of their teammates in the midst of a change. On the far side of the neutral zone, near the Tritons’ bench, Grey skated slowly toward their offensive zone like a child tiptoeing around the house late at night, using the line change to mask his movements.
I entered the zone, puck ahead of me, and as soon as I did, Grey took off like a shot, streaking toward the net.
The Tritons never saw him coming.
Despite their goalie screaming his head off, my last-possible-second pass hit Grey’s stick perfectly, and the goalie guessed wrong, sliding my way instead of Grey’s. Grey buried the puck in the wide open net, and I was on him, crushing him in a hug against the boards a moment later.
“FUCK YEAH!” I yelled over the roar of the crowd. “Nice shot, kid!”
“Nice pass!” Grey shouted back, grinning from ear to ear. The rest of our teammates caught up to us and joined in on the celly before we skated to the bench for congratulatory fist-bumps.
During my next shift, I hopped onto the ice after a stop in play. One of the Tritons had bumped the net off its posts, so the refs paused play while it was fixed. The face-off was taking place in our end, to the left of our goalie, and as I skated mindless circles while I waited, someone said my name.
Turning, I found myself face to face with Josef Bobal, one of the dirtiest players in the league. He’d been responsible for a hit that had taken Grey out for ten games in the fall, and not a single Warrior had forgotten. I was almost grateful the refs had hardly let the game flow tonight, for it kept Bobal’s nastier instincts in check.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” he said.
“For winning this game? I mean, it’s not over yet, but thanks,” I said with a sneering grin.
Unperturbed, Bobal said, “I saw on Instagram that you got yourself a hot little girlfriend.” He shot me a smirk and suggestive eyebrow wiggle. “I can see the allure. But does she know about your women in other cities?”
“There are no women in other cities.”
“Sure there aren’t,” Bobal said with a wink. “Mind if I take a crack at Blondie next time we’re in Detroit?”
His use ofmynickname had my blood boiling, and I skated closer, getting in his face.
“Don’t call her that,” I said, standing straighter. Although I was a couple inches taller than Bobal, the man weighed about twenty pounds more. If it came to that, it’d probably be a fair fight. “You stay the fuck away from her.”
“Or what, Jean? I’m sure she’d be happy to let me take her for a ride. She can’t be any different than every other puck bunny we know, right?”
My vision went red a moment before my fist flew out. Bobal’s head snapped back, his helmet clattering to the ice.
When Bobal brought a hand to his brow and it came away red, he launched himself at me, glancing a blow to my temple but catching mostly helmet when I dipped out of the way.
Once again, I drew my fist back and smashed it into the center of his face.
Bobal looked at me and grinned manically, teeth stained red with blood. “I bet she’s great in bed. With that tight little body? She’s probably a freak.”
My girlwasa freak, always down to try new shit, always finding new ways to blow my mind. But this fucker would never know that. Not as long as I drew breath.
For the third time, I swung, and bone crunched satisfactorily under my knuckles. Bobal landed on his back, blood pouring from his nose.
Trainers raced onto the ice, and the ref grabbed me by the arm, skating me to the box.
“Five for fighting,” he announced. “Major.”
I grinned. Fucking worth it.
After that excitement, the remainder of the game was uneventful. No other goals were scored, earning us a much needed win and two points in the standings.
We celebrated with beer and pizza at a restaurant downtown, and while some of my teammates went to the bar for a “night cap”—which I knew from experience was code for finding someone to fuck—I went back to my room. I knew it was late, but I was desperate to hear Berkley’s voice after the altercation with Bobal.
