Page 106 of Bombshells
Oh shit. The Boston player bears down on Sylvie. Our defense can’t get there in time, so it’s one on one.
Sylvie’s in the zone, though. I can tell. Come on, honey, I privately beg. You got this.
The shooter tries to deke the shot with her shoulders, but Sylvie is watching so closely that they both move in the same direction at the same time, like a pair of well-trained dancers.
The puck smacks into Sylvie’s glove a split second later.
“YESSSSSSS!” I scream, rising to my feet with the rest of our section. “Go Brooklyn!”
“Yes, baby, YES!” Campeau puts his fingers in his mouth and lets fly a deafening whistle of approval. It’s basically the most emotion I’ve ever seen him exhibit off the ice.
Brooklyn’s shutout is still intact with eleven minutes left in the game. But Boston is pissed off about it and getting chippy. They’re playing like a bunch of trolls now, with more elbows than a box of macaroni.
Whoever called women “the fairer sex” never watched this team trying to make up for their scoring deficit with pure physical violence.
But they’re running out of time. The speed of play amps up as the clock runs down. Even when you feel completely depleted, there’s always a little more gas in the tank, and both teams are drawing on that right now.
Sylvie, the warrior queen, stays loose and composed in the net, watching the action and coaching her teammates. She’s just fun to watch, and even though several of my teammates are sitting here enjoying her performance, I feel like a man with a secret.
She’s exciting to me on so many levels. In my whole life I’ve never gotten turned on by somebody’s hockey skills. But I guess there’s a first time for everything.
I’m actually daydreaming a little when Boston gets another chance at a breakaway. This time Charli is on her, though. She angles her stick to prevent a shot. The Boston player uses her fist to try to shake her off. It’s illegal, but she doesn’t get called.
And then everything starts to happen really fast. Charli goes for the poke check but somehow she gets tangled up in her opponent just as the shooter makes her shot.
Both skaters go down, but they’ve got so much momentum in their bodies that they skid toward the net, where Sylvie is diving for the puck.
Charli rolls out of the way to avoid colliding with her teammate.
But the Boston player doesn’t bother. Nor does she move her stick out of the way. She just slides like a missile into Sylvie’s outstretched upper body.
I’m on my feet again before I realize it. Sylvie’s helmet has popped off, and now she’s clutching her… Jaw? Neck? Cheek?
“FUCK!” Campeau shouts.
That’s when Sylvie sort of curls forward, as if collapsing onto the ice. She doesn’t move.
“Holy shit,” Cedric whispers.
I see something red where there shouldn’t be anything red.
“Omigod that’s blood!” Trina shrieks.
Campeau climbs over a row of seats, heading for the aisle, his eyes wild.
Drake makes a grab for him. “Hey, hey. Slow down. The doc is down there.”
Sure enough, Doc Herberts is already running across the ice, the trainer right behind him.
“Hands off me.” Campeau shakes off Drake. “Les ostie de fuckés!” He follows that up with more French cursing.
I watch him run for the exit, with Sylvie’s father on his heels. I want to follow, too, but I know I can’t. I am entertaining seventeen guests, and Doc doesn’t want me in his way.
“Is…is she gonna be okay?” Manny asks in a hushed voice.
“Yes,” I say immediately. But the popcorn curdles in my belly.
Sylvie is helped off the ice a moment later. She’s on her feet, but I can’t see her face at all, for the swarm of people around her. It’s a lot of people—her coach, the doctor, and at least one trainer. Her teammates are clustering close by.
