Page 22 of Slapshot
“Come on. We’ve got two hours to kill.”
“God, I must be desperate for entertainment,” I mumble as I turn and place my hands on top of his.
Like before excitement and warmth jolts my nerve endings. My head knows he’s playing me, but my body does not care.
“Ready?” he asks and brings his palms up so our hands touch from fingertips to wrist.
“Yes. No. Wait.” I switch my hands so I’m on the bottom and in position to slap.
It takes three tries before I’m able to move my hands fast enough to smack his, but I’m ridiculously excited to have bested him. That is until it’s his turn.
Again he brings his palms up, increasing the friction between our hands. I revel in the feeling too long and he strikes. I try to pull back but not fast enough.
“Oww.” The sting of his slap turns the top of my hand red instantly.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry. I guess I’m used to playing with the guys.” He takes my hand in his and rubs a thumb over the blotchy skin. “Are you okay?”
His brown eyes search mine and his brows draw together in concern. My heart is racing from the thrill of his touch and the look on his face. Like he cares if I’m okay. I’ve been fooled by that look too many times. Dylan was the last of many who made me feel special only to break my heart. And with Dylan it was even worse because he genuinely didn’t care who my father was. Being dumped is awful, but being reminded that you’re not worthy of love is gut wrenching.
I pull back and hold my hands to my chest. “I’m fine. That game is stupid.”
* * *
It’s chaos when we get to UMass. The freshmen once again carry the bags, but as soon as we’re in the locker room I have to unpack and set up so we can get on the ice for warm-up.
I’m on the bench filling water bottles when they take the ice. Coach Garfunkle and Coach Keller are standing together watching.
“Forte is still favoring his right knee,” Coach Garfunkle says. “Should we mix up the line? We’ve got Vonne.”
Coach Keller crosses both arms over his chest, making his suit jacket bunch up around his armpits. “I’m not sure we have a choice. We need everyone healthy for next weekend. Dartmouth will be tough.”
I find Lex on the ice and watch as he circles around the net. My gaze falls to his skates and I groan. Why the coaches have let him get away with wearing those old things is beyond me. It’s one thing to be superstitious about your gear, it’s another to wear skates that are way beyond being useful. He probably would like the five-eighths better if he had a stiffer boot. I’m surprised he hasn’t seriously injured one or both of his ankles.
Thinking back to what Paxton said about Lex not finding a rhythm with the team, I watch him more carefully throughout the game. He doesn’t play much so it’s hard to tell how he meshes. What I can tell? He’s frustrated. The hard set of his jaw and the way he skates—like his life depends on it.
Desperation. It’s not any more effective scoring on the ice than off.
It’s an ugly win, but a win none the less. The guys take the bus back to the hotel, but I stay behind to make sure everything is ready for tomorrow. We play UMass again tomorrow afternoon before we head back to Burlington.
When I finally make it to my room, I’m exhausted. Bone tired. I need a shower and then I’m going to fall directly into bed. Turns out, this job isn’t as easy as I thought. Especially now that the guys are getting more comfortable with me. I had a dozen requests after the game for repairs or adjustments.
I’m pulling on a T-shirt and leggings when there’s a knock at my door.
I open it without looking, expecting one of the coaches doing rounds and checking rooms, but it’s Lex on the other side. He’s got a smirk and a bottle of wine.
“Are you lost?”
“Nope. A few of the guys are hanging out in the twins’ room.”
“How did you know this was my room?”
“Coach might have mentioned it when he was passing out room keys.”
“Well, I’m tired and going to bed.”
He places a hand on the door to keep me from shutting it. “Come on. Hang for a little while. We’re not so bad.”
“You have a game tomorrow.”
