Page 6 of Pucking Matt
I walk down the sidewalk, protein shake in one hand, brown bag in the other. Amber's face when I walked in? Fucking gold. She's still not over me.
I reach into the bag for my sandwich and find something that doesn't belong in it. Paper. I pull it out – the change I tipped her. All $19.25 of it.
“Cute,” I mutter, stuffing the bills back in my wallet. Girl's got balls, I'll give her that.
Back at my place, I unwrap the sandwich and take a massive bite. It's salty as hell. I snort, swallowing hard. “Real mature.”
I'm about to demolish the rest when I spot something. A little black speck between the lettuce and tomato. I pluck it out. A raisin. I check the rest of the sandwich. Clean. Just one single, solitary raisin.
“You've gotta be shitting me,” I say, but I'm grinning. Amber thinks she's clever? Game on.
I wolf down the rest of the sandwich, my mind already on hockey. Coach has been up my ass lately, and I need to step it up if I want a shot at the NHL. All this Grey and Maddie bullshit has officially affected my game on the ice, so I need to get my ass back on track, let him have her, and avoid another fight before I get kicked out of this ivy league school. Then I’ll have no choice but to really beat Grey’s ass.
I’m not going to lie, ever since I’ve seen Amber, she’s become my number one distraction. I don’t care what Grey and Maddie are doing anymore because I have a new shiny object to fuck with.
I grab my notebook and start listing ideas on how I can improve in the rink.
1. Stop throwing punches on the ice
2. Hustle on the backcheck
3. Protect the puck in traffic
4. Find my wingers faster
5. Bury more shots
6. Build stamina for third period
7. Block more shots
8. Be louder on the ice
9. Quicken my release
10. Use my size to crush opponents
The next day, I’m staring at the list I made last night. It's a lot, but I'm not some average Joe. I'm a fucking beast on the ice, and I need to up my game. Let’s be real, there’s a reason why Madison Wilder––daughter of NHL Coach Wilder––dated me. I know I have the skill, talent, and dedication. I’m hungry for this.
My phone buzzes. It’s my boy, Harvey.
“Pearson,” he says as I answer the phone call.
I scoff. “What's up?”
“Checking in. You good for practice today?”
I consider bullshitting him, then think better of it. I have a fuckingGet Betterlist in front of me right now. Harvey has some sixth sense, I swear. I mutter, “Worried I'm not cutting it, man. I need to improve.”
“Look, Matt,” Harvey says, all serious. “You're a beast, but your two-way game's weak. You're leaving our D hanging when we lose possession. Gotta haul ass back and help out more on our end.”
I clench my jaw. He's right, damn it. “How do I fix it?”
“Let’s get lunch, and we can talk about it.”
“You're on,” I say. “I know just the place.”
I hang up, feeling fired up. I grab my gear bag and head out. Time to hit the gym. And then after that – I've got a raisin to return.
