Page 8 of The Head Game

At forty-nine, Ross was getting up there for a referee, but at twenty-five, August was the youngest. Not the youngest ever, but currently in the league.

Young enough that people didn’t always respect him.

But Ross had treated him with respect from the beginning and August had always appreciated that.

This could have been your wedding day, the sneaky, insidious voice in his head reminded him again.

He ruthlessly tamped it down. Listening to reminders of what he’d lost wasn’t going to do him any favors when he was out on the ice.

Yeah, it was early in the season, but the teams playing tonight still deserved his best, not him being an emotional, distracted mess.

Unfortunately, while the bright energy of a game usually buoyed his own mood, tonight felt like a slog from the moment the puck dropped.

The Fisher Cats took an early lead with a goal within the first two minutes and August nearly got taken out by a puck a few minutes later.

He had to do a quick hop to avoid it, fumbling a little.

“Sleeping on the job there, Manning?” Nicolaas Arents snarked as he blew past, chasing the puck.

August got his feet under him again, glaring at Arents’ retreating back.

People loved the guy but he irritated August.

Arents had been a pain in the ass since day one. He always had some “clever” quip to throw at the officials.

August was grateful when the first period ended with little more than a few icing calls and a 2-0 lead for the Fisher Cats.

He made the mistake of checking his phone during the first intermission, swallowing hard at the picture Daniel had posted a few minutes ago.

It was from their candlelit ceremony, maybe taken after Daniel and Kent had said their vows.

God, the way they looked each other …

Had Daniel ever looked at August like that?

August swallowed thickly and put his phone away again, regretting he’d checked it.

Did he like torturing himself?

Unfortunately, the second period wasn’t much better. Arents was as mouthy as ever and August had to warn him several times to knock it off.

The Fisher Cats were still up 2-0 when Otters’ defenseman Gabriel Theriault stole the puck from the Cats captain, Dustin Fowler.

They traded a few insults in French but it all seemed good-natured. Still, August kept his eye on Theriault.

Few guys were fast enough to keep up with him but Arents did his best, making a nuisance of himself as he whacked at the puck in the neutral zone, trying to knock it from Theriault’s stick.

Theriault went down on the ice, sliding a few feet and August blew the whistle immediately. The hook to Theriault’s skate had been subtle but definitely there.

“Into the box, Arents,” August called out.

Arents skated up, all wide-eyed innocence. “What for? I didn’t do shit, Manning!”

August frowned. “Two minutes for hooking.”

“I’ve never hooked a day in my life. I’m definitely good enough in bed to get paid for it but I don’t exactly need the money.”

August sighed, annoyed. So, it was going to be one of those nights.

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