Page 62 of The Pucking Grump

“So, how was the love call?” His brows knot in worry when he spies my shaking hands. “Faye, what is it?”

I take a deep breath as I look up at him.

“We have a problem.”

20

MINE, ALL MINE

The puck slides across the ice in my direction. Without a second thought, I slam it toward Ken, our center. The stadium erupts in roars so loud, we can hardly hear each other on the ice. Still, I feel the intensity of Ken’s glare.

“Didn’t ask for an apple,” he yells over the noise, before skating off to outmaneuver the Minnesota Wild’s winger closing in on him. I catch Luke’s eye, our other winger, and we both dart to flank Ken, covering him as he attempts to fake out the opposing wingers. Suddenly, the Wild’s center cuts in front of Ken, snatches the puck, and fires a one-timer at Nelson, our goalie. Nelson snags it just in time, drawing groans from the crowd.

“Can’t believe this,” Ken mutters, returning to us, a line of blood trailing from his split lip—a souvenir from a clash with the Wild’s center. “Last season, that guy was a nobody, and now look at him.”

Nelson flashes a grin, shaking off the close call. “Just gotta hold them off for the next fifteen minutes, and we’ve got this game in the bag.”

With a nod, we’re back in formation, the adrenaline pumping, determined to keep our lead intact.

“Guess they didn’t get the memo that this was supposed to be a friendly game,” Ken says, scowling at the center as he skates back into position.

“Or they don’t want to lose their first game of the year. Remember, Blake? How you almost broke the Red Hawk winger’s collarbone?”

I grin. “Yeah, that was almost fun.” When we exchange memories during a lull, it makes it easier to forget that there are thousands of people roaring at us and we’re playing an intense game.

The conversation stops. Luke and Ken exchange a look. I glance from face to face, confused.

“What now?”

“You look . . . er . . . happy,” Ken says, exchanging another cautious glance with Luke.

Great. Not this again.

Luke has a stupid little smile at the corner of his lips. “Well, we all know why . . .”

“Doesn’t look like the Minnesota Wilds are going to make it back before the game ends.” A commentator’s voice booms out on the speakers overhead, cutting us short. “The Philly Titans have owned this game from the beginning.”

We all get back in position as the referee drops the puck on the center line. Ken dives for it as the other center swoops in too. I come in second, poised for offense.

“Looks like White is in fit fighting form.”

“He would be,” says another, and I can almost detect the smirk in his voice. “You know, since . . .”

“A good personal life does make a difference in one’s career.”

A wild cheer goes up then. Since Ken and the other center haven’t made much progress, I know it’s got nothing to do with the game.

I glance at the video board, even though I don’t necessarily need to. Only one thing would cause that kind of exuberant shouting in the middle of a game.

One thing . . . or person.

Faye Strummer is sitting in one of the boxes overhead. She gives a little wave to the camera once the spotlight is on her, but her eyes are glued to the game . . . and me.

Even now, I feel a slight twitch in my pants, along with a greater dose of impatience, willing the match to end.

Just before the game, she came to my place and I fucked her, mere hours before we started to play. And now, my body is already brimming with excitement at the prospect of having her again.

Ken dodges the opposing center and heads straight for the net. Barely two seconds later, he’s checked hard by the left wing. The puck is cleared to the other end of the ice while Ken, knocked down to the ice, struggles to regain his footing. The referee immediately blows his whistle, signaling a penalty. The crowd lets out a collective groan.

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