Page 39 of Bombshells
I watched, wide-eyed, as every player on the ice tried to shoot a big ball at the net, at the same time. The result was chaos. Players got in each other’s way. I watched as Bryce accidentally bounced a shot off Castro’s padded ass.
And then one team was the first to solve the quandary of how to score efficiently. And that team was the Bombshells! My girls formed a sort of bucket brigade, funneling balls in turn toward two shooters, who bombed goalie Mike Beacon in pairs, forcing him to choose which shot to defend.
We won the first game with a score of fourteen to nine. And when I skated out for game two, we kept up the good work. I learned to use my broom sideways to defend the whole zone at once, and again we won, this time by eight goals to six, since the men had also learned a few things in the meantime.
Games three and four had been even weirder, with every skater wielding a giant rubber spatula. That’s right—spatulas. They looked like the kind you’d see at any kitchen store, except they were five feet tall, and the rubber spatula part was as broad as a snow shovel.
The “puck” was a rubber object shaped a lot like an egg. It was slippery, which made everything more complicated. And it refused to roll in a straight line.
Once again, whomever could adapt the fastest would win. And again, that was the Bombshells. We won games three and four by narrow margins.
And I really enjoyed the look of consternation on Anton Bayer’s face as he tried to score on me with that unwieldy spatula. The egg went spinning away from him, and I have never seen a man look more confused.
The fans are loving this, too. Every crazy ricochet and error is cause for cheers and shrieks of laughter.
Finally they’ve put hockey sticks back into our hands, and the playing field has leveled out very fast. Those crazy bumpers positioned around the ice make passing a perilous experience, though, causing far more turnovers than in a regular game.
But the men have learned to negotiate them as quickly as the women, and they end up taking just as many shots on goal. Scarlet fought her hardest in the first game, but she let in three, while Beacon only let in two. The Bombshells lost by a nose.
And now it’s my turn to defend the net for our very last game. When the whistle blows, I vault over the wall. Bryce gives me a big smile and a thumbs up as I head for the net, and it warms the center of my chest.
He and I used to argue over hockey all the time. It had been fun. We don’t squabble like that anymore, and I miss it. Maybe that’s why I got so mad at him when he took it easy on me during that goalie practice. Because he used to treat me like an equal.
I push that thought out of my head, though, because I have a job to do. I edge my blades all over the crease, roughing up the ice just the way I like it. The whistle blows, and Fiona sets up for a faceoff against Leo Trevi.
Those bumpers make it hard to see the puck, and a goalie’s job is to see the whole ice when my teammates can’t. So I have to rely on other visual cues. You can tell who has the puck by the set of their shoulders, and the tension in their arms.
“To Castro!” I shout to Charli. “Wing! Incoming!”
Charli anticipates him, getting right in his way. He passes toward Bayer, but the bumper interferes, and Fiona intercepts it.
The next nine minutes are a sweaty blur. I deflect a couple of squeakers. And my girls take several good shots, too, but Silas denies them.
Castro eventually gets another shot on me. But since Charli’s already in his face, he can’t run it in as far as he’d like, and the puck is airborne long enough for me to set up for a beautiful glove save.
Fans are screaming as I toss the puck to the ref, and he sets up another faceoff. I know in my gut that the clock is running down, and somehow we’re scoreless.
Sure, it’s only a ten-minute game, but I’m earning my weekly five hundred bucks right now against an NHL team that has made it to the playoffs the last three years.
Fiona loses the faceoff, and the men take control. They’ve figured out the bumpers, too, and they execute a series of nice passes as I call out instructions to my teammates.
“Cover left! Charli—man on!”
Unfortunately, Charli gets stripped by Anton Bayer. And suddenly the big defenseman is barreling toward me, stick-handling around the last bumper to rush the net.
And this man—my friend, my running buddy, and the man I told under no uncertain terms that I would never want anyone to take easy shots at me—is about to let the puck fly from close range.
Given my centered stance, he’ll have to choose left or right at the last moment. I hear him connect with the puck, and our gazes lock for just a nanosecond. Those ridiculously bright blue eyes are full of intention as he fires a missile at me.
Now, some shots can be planned for, if there’s time. But some require only gut instinct and prayer. This shot falls into the latter category.
My body chooses to go right. Maybe it’s something in his stick action that sends me in that direction, or maybe it’s just dumb luck, but my lunge puts my glove in the path of the puck, and when it lands, my hand practically vibrates with the force of it.
But I’ve done it. I stopped the shot. And the buzzer rings as I’m staring at the puck in my glove.
I let out a whoop of victory as my teammates speed toward me, shoving Anton out of the way. When I glance over Charli’s shoulder, he’s smiling and shaking his head.
“WINNERS…BOMBSHELLS!” the announcer calls.
