Page 1 of My Puckin' Luck
1
TAKE ANOTHER SHOT
MILES “SAINT” ST. JAMES
If the Centerfrom the Vancouver Ice chirps past me one more time, he’s going to find himself toothless. With only a few minutes left in the game, I’ve had it. “Sanderson is just as irritating as he was the first time we played against him two years ago. Fucking rookie,” I complain to Coach Daniels during a line change. He knows we have a history with this guy and shakes his head.
“He’s not a rookie anymore, Saint,” he reminds me.
“He still acts like one.” There are two kinds of rookies, those that come into the league their first year, doing as they’re told, working hard, and soaking up knowledge like sponges. Then there’s Sanderson, egotistical little know-it-all-show-off, thinking he’s all that.
I remember when former teammate Big D pummeled Scott Sanderson’s face in his debut game for pushing Storm into the net. Tonight, internally, I’m begging Sanderson to push the limits again. It’ll be my turn to do the honors, since Big D landed in the professional league playing for the Vegas Gamblers now.
As the right winger, oldest player on the team, and the biggest, I’ve become the chief enforcer. I watch out for everyone, especially our goalie. At least one game a week, I find myself in apunching match with an opponent on the ice. But only on the ice. Off the ice, I’ve perfected a scowl that never requires me to use my fists in a bar brawl.
Not that I go looking for brawls these days. I enjoy my chiseled jawline way too much to risk breaking it. Although on the rare occasion I have a black eye, the puck bunnies adore it and swoon over me.
The line changes up, and my blades hit the ice again. We have a decent team this year, so far, but there’s a long season ahead of us and our first line, made up of all new guys fresh out of college, is still working out the kinks. The team has changed so much, no longer do I have my friends and teammates with me other than Duke, who hung up his skates and stick to become our coach.
I miss Tucker, Beau, Storm, and Big D. They’ve all moved on and settled down with wives or girlfriends, each playing in the professional league. Yet I’m still here with the Puckers in L.A., single as hell, but I don’t mind. I play because I enjoy it. I don’t need the money and have little ambition to do anything else. And the last thing I believe is that love is out there somewhere for me.
I tried it once, and wasn’t that lucky.
I track the puck to Smith, our center, who sails it over to me in a sweet pass. With no one ahead of me, I take off with it down the ice then slow up, the net quickly defended by Ice players guarding their goalie. I glide the puck off to Ranger on the left, and move closer to the net, setting up a shot we’ve practiced often.
Someone shoves me from behind, diverting my attention. I hear Sanderson laughing as he skates away out of my reach. He causes me to miss the pass, and the puck goes flying into the boards. “Fucking asshole,” I shout.
Next thing I see, he checks his stick into the back of our defenseman, Leo, slamming him hard into the boards to gaincontrol of the puck. Leo falls to the ice, and for once, the ref is on top of it, blowing his whistle, stopping the play so Sanderson doesn’t get away with it.
The ref gives Sanderson two minutes in the penalty box for cross checking. He pitches a fit, getting right into the ref’s face about it. I’d love nothing more than to see him thrown out for misconduct, but Sanderson accepts defeat and skates slowly to the sin bin.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to play with sticks, Sanderson?” I shout after him.
He reverses on his blades, traveling backwards, and yells, “Nope. She was too busy fucking around with your dad.”
I charge after him. He could say anything about my mother. I wouldn’t care. But he won’t soil my father’s name and get away with it.
“Bastard.” I shove him into the glass. Right behind him, my eye catches sight of a woman sitting there, so familiar. She’s like a ghost of someone I once knew, and it takes my breath away for a second. Only it’s Anastasia, the best friend of Storm’s girlfriend. A rare beauty. A woman who, so far, has resisted me, not for lack of my trying.
There’s something between us, I can’t pin down what. At first, I wanted her, like I do most beautiful women who cross my path. But Storm warned me off, not wanting me to ruin what he had going with his girl, Misty, by fucking the best friend. I understood the assignment then.
Now? Storm’s playing in Denver, Misty’s with him, and they are engaged. Anastasia and I are here in L.A., the last of our friend group. Alone. Neither attached to anyone, as far as I know.
If given a chance to be in front of her again, I’d take another shot, and I’m not sure there’d be anything or anyone to stop me.
“Asshole. You want to go, old man?” Sanderson’s gloves come off, swiping a first punch my way. I get my head back into the game and quickly dodge it.
“Yeah. Let’s go, hotshot.” My gloves slide across the ice. I land several fast jabs to his face and a last body shot hook that sends him to his knees. Easy work, I hardly break a sweat. My teammates pull me away before I can do more harm.
I peek back at Anastasia as the refs skate me away to the penalty box. She stares at me with softly curved lips and eyes, in a sultry way, as if the sight of me fighting is the biggest aphrodisiac ever. I get partial wood by the time my ass hits the bench.
Sanderson and I both end up with penalties, but I don’t care. Worth it to see his bloody lip, and I think he lost a tooth. Even more worth it to get that reaction from Anastasia who, until now, I thought didn’t care much for me.
Maybe my luck is about to change. I might text her later to test that theory.
In the box, me and Sanderson continue to trade insults for the rest of the penalty, but the game is over before we exit. The Puckers win.
When the team celebrates in the locker room, I offer the guys to come to my place with their dates and we’ll continue the celebration. I text a few puck bunnies I have in my contacts. They’ll spread the word.
