We’re warmed up and with only twenty minutes until puck drop, the adrenaline is flowing.
D-Vo nudges my arm. “You with us?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I rake my fingers through my hair. I need to get my head on straight. The only thing I should be thinking about—the only thing that matters right now—is the Kings.
I can worry about Ava, Coach, and the fucked-up web we’re weaving after the game.
God knows I’ll have plenty of time on my hands back at the hotel.
“It’s going to be weird playing on different lines,” he says, eyes downcast as he retapes his stick. It’s his pregame ritual, and he’s maniacal about it. If anyone touches his stick before the game, he’ll rip the tape off and start over. “I figured we’d always be linemates, just like in college.”
Coach reworked the lines for tonight’s game, moving McGinnis and Kristiansen to the first line with the former shifting from center to left wing.
“I thought so too, but who knows? This just might be the shake-up we need.” I clap him on the shoulder. “No matter what happens, you’ll always be my number one.”
“Same, brother.” He looks up, a wicked grin on his face. “What about your good luck charm? Where does she fit into the lineup?”
I freeze, trying to think of a way to tell him to shut the fuck up that won’t draw attention.
“It’s not…” Not what? Not like that? D-Vo would see right through my bullshit. He’s known me for more than a decade, and he’s smart enough to know I wouldn’t let her go a second time. “We’re not talking about this.”
He snorts. “Sure, just like we’re not talking about the fact that you have her picture in your stall.”
It’s risky as hell with Ava working for the team, but it would be weirder if the guys saw me suddenly break my pregame ritual. Besides, the photo strip is tiny. You’d have to be holding it to see any level of detail.
So, no. I’m not about to break with tradition. Not when I need luck on my side more than ever.
“Good talk.” I shoot him a pointed look, but he ignores me. “Since we’re on the same page, we won’t need to discuss it again.”
Not in the locker room, anyway.
D-Vo snorts. “Sure, Jamesy. As long as it doesn’t affect the team.”
It won’t. I won’t let it.
When all the guys have finished their pregame rituals, I stand and call for attention.
“Tonight we face the Kings on their home ice. Some people say that gives them an advantage, but that’s bullshit. We have the advantage tonight. They’re going to underestimate us because our record is lousy and they haven’t seen what we’re capable of as a team.”
There’s a murmur of assent and a few guys tap their sticks.
“If we play tonight like we played at practice this week, we will come out on top.”
“Hell yeah!” McGinnis shouts, his eyes bright, as the locker room cheers grow in volume. Even the coaching staff joins in.
“We’re going to go out there and crash the net, and we aren’t going to let up until we light the lamp. There’s still a lot of hockey left to play this season, so tonight we’re going to win this game for ourselves, for our coaching staff, and most importantly, for Ava. She’s been working her ass off to help us get better, and delivering back-to-back wins is the least we can do.”
The cheers reach a crescendo, and by the time we take the ice, the team’s energy is palpable. Guys are champing at the bit, all of us determined to bring home a much-needed W. To prove we’re not a lost cause.
If I have to shove the rubber down their goalie’s throat to make it happen, so be it.
Nervous energy coils in my gut as I take my place at center ice. The crowd is subdued for a Saturday night, which is probably a reflection of the Kings’ record.
I sympathize, but I’m playing to win. If they catch a break tonight, it sure as hell won’t be from me.
The ref barks, “Sticks down!” and I move into position, sweat already lining my brow.
My opponent follows suit and then we wait, both of us laser-focused on the puck, both of us waiting for the telltale muscle twitch. I block out the sound of the screaming fans and the loud music, my world narrowing to the biscuit, the ice, and my stick.