Page 38 of The Enforcer

I live for these moments.

These moments when he proves that I’m all his.

And that we’ll be together forever.

Epilogue

Tucker

Thirty Years Later…

I’m standing backstage with the producer of the Hockey Awards Show, waiting for him to tell me to go on. I’m presenting the award for the best hockey fight of the decade.

The nominees are good, but nothing lives up to my classic battles with Clint Maddock. They’re still always number one and two on the lists of best hockey fights ever.

“Okay,” the producer says as he hands me the trophy and waves me on. “Go!”

I take a deep breath, run my hand over my suit jacket, and calmly walk out to the podium in the middle of the stage.

It’s a fancy affair with players in the league, sports media figures, and legends of the game all mixed together in the audience. I recognize so many faces as I take my place in front of the mic.

But my eyes dart to the only face I care to see. My beautiful Jane is sitting at our table, smiling radiantly at me. Just seeing her makes the nerves go away.

“It’s against the rules to fight in hockey,” I say into the mic. “But breaking the rules is so much fun.”

The crowd laughs lightly.

“Here are the nominees for the best hockey fight of the?—”

“Hey, McKinstry!” a deep booming voice roars through the theater. “I got a score to settle!”

I grit my teeth as Clint Maddock—late sixties, but still a beast—comes charging up the stairs onto the stage. I place the trophy on the podium while glaring at him.

The crowd rumbles in excitement as I roll up the sleeves of my jacket and stomp over to meet him.

We’re glaring at each other, the tension thick in the air, as we face off just like old times.

The tension boils over, but instead of punching each other’s faces in, we hunker down and play rock, paper, scissors.

The crowd erupts in laughter.

He wins one game, I win two.

The crowd eats it up as I put my arm around him and we head over to the podium together.

We’ve been good friends for about five years now. We were both at a charity fundraiser to sign gear for the fans when the lady organizing the event sat us together. She knew nothing about hockey and our great rivalry, and when I tried to tell her, she didn’t particularly care.

“You’re grown men now,” she said sternly before rushing away. “Figure it out.”

By the end of the eight hours, we were friends.

It turns out, we’re more similar than we thought. We’re two peas in a pod with the same protective, tough, warrior mentality.

The crowd is still laughing as we stand in front of the mic. They weren’t expecting that.

“The nominees for the best hockey fight are,” Clint says with a smile.

“Sanchez and Ackerman,” I say.

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