Page 113 of Interference

Sometimes it wasn’t worth the headache—both traffic and my traveling companion—to go home between the morning skate and a game.

Today, putting up with gridlock and Simon’s pissy mood turned out to be a small inconvenience compared to what was waiting for me when I got home.

“Aren’t athletes supposed to abstain before a game?” Wyatt had asked between kisses. “Something, something, using up all their energy?”

“Urban legend,” I’d panted against his lips. “Get these clothes off.”

Now, a few hours later as I put on my gear in the locker room, I felt amazing. Getting laid earlier definitely hadn’t taken away any energy or focus for tonight. In fact, my focus was sharper. We’d relieved a solid year’s worth of tension and frustration yesterday and this afternoon, and I was so fucking ready to get out there and play hockey. I was ready to play the kind of hockey Coach had been impatiently waiting for out of me since the season started.

Was Wyatt a magical cure-all for my game being off? No, but he sure had yanked me out of my post-Simon funk, and that crystallized my concentration on everything. It was like the whole damn world had shifted back into focus, and I could finally function again. And it wasn’t just the sex with Wyatt—it was the broken standoff with Simon.

Jesus. Why had I tried so hard to save that trainwreck of a relationship?

Ah, well. It was over now, and I was happily moving the hell on. Some good sex, and now—hopefully—some good hockey.

The game started slower than any of us would’ve liked. That was a thing this team did sometimes—coming out of the gate sluggish—and it was costly. The only reason it didn’t cost us dearly tonight was because Beaus stood on his head and made some spectacular saves. By the end of the first period, we were tied one apiece, but Minneapolis had three times the shots on goal we did.

Fuck. We needed to get it together. Our offense needed to be more aggressive, and our defense needed to keep those assholes away from our net. Coach told as much during the first intermission, if in decidedly more colorful terms. He finished by reminding us we had a whole farm team full of prospects who’d happily show up if we couldn’t be bothered.

We came out for the second as a different team. Simon’s line racked up four shots on goal during their first shift, and when Nova and I went out with the third line, we kept the pressure on. Two shots very nearly went in, and I would go to my grave wondering how their goalie stopped that second one. He was good, damn it.

But we’d put a puck behind him once this game, and we could do it again. We kept up the pressure, even as the third line peeled away. The first line was coming back out, so Coach must’ve seen what I did—we were wearing the other team down, and that was the perfect time to bring out our top line to make things happen.

We cycled and shot, cycled and shot, and the other players were clearly getting tired, desperate for a line change. Perfect.

I fired a pass from the blue line to D’Angelo, who was near the net, and he wound back to put it on goal—

And the whistle blew.

I looked around and found a linesman gesturing at Nova, then at his own leg.

For God’s sake. Really?

Yep. Really. Nova was headed to the box for tripping.

As Minneapolis’s power play unit came onto the ice, relieving their exhausted players, I watched the replay.

Okay, fine, it was a good call. But the guy Nova tripped should’ve taken a penalty for embellishment, because wow, he really wanted to sell it, didn’t he? Ugh. I hated guys who did that. We all wanted to draw penalties, but this wasn’t soccer. Don’t be a baby about it.

I headed for the bench. Coach usually had me on the top penalty kill unit, but I’d already been out for a solid ninety seconds. I needed the breather, especially going up against one of the top power play units in the League.

Within half a minute, I was bouncing my knee and itching to go over the boards. I was still a little winded, but damn it, I wanted to get out there. I wanted to help keep this power play from scoring. They were on a hot streak—they’d scored in nineteen of their last twenty power plays—and I wanted us to break it.

Finally, Chip cleared the puck, and as the first penalty kill unit came back, I flew over the boards with the rest of the second.

Minneapolis’s guys were speeding back through the neutral zone, ready to set up in our end. Two of our guys closed in on the forward who had the puck, and he did a no-look pass to one of his teammates.

No-look passes had one major weakness, though: the guy he was passing to was probably where he expected him to be, but he wasn’t the only player on the ice.

In this case, I swooped in between them and stole the puck.

I’d intended to just steal it and clear it, but the instant it hit my tape, I realized the player he’d been passing to was pulling up the rear. There was no one behind him. Just empty space between him and the goal.

I whipped past the forward who’d been expecting to receive the puck, and I hauled ass toward their zone. The crowd roared. Players were shouting at each other and probably at me, but I couldn’t hear them. Not over the fans. Not over my heart pounding in my ears.

This goalie was almost impossible to score on from straight ahead unless there was a screen in front of him. I barreled head on toward him, eyes locked on him as he watched me, blocker and glove up and ready.

With a few feet to go, I made like I was going to dart to one side and wrist the puck into the goal.

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