Page 8 of One Pucking Wish

We emerge from the storm clouds and settle into smooth flying on our way to Canada. Iris scrolls Pinterest boards, no doubt for inspiration on planning her next event, while I set up my compact and its tiny mirror on the little tray table. I’ve had enough of this funk I’m in. There’s no longer any room for me at this pity party. I’m leaving it. Step one is to get my face back in order.

My new makeup may be shit, but it’ll have to do. And at least I got a free bag out of it.

CHAPTER

FOUR

GUNNER

The arena, dimly lit save for the intense lights shining on the ice, is deafening with the roar of the Vancouver fans. The tension crackles in the air, but it’s not the welcome excitement that comes when we’re about to score a win. It’s the burning electricity that stings with an impending loss. The game's final minutes tick away, and we can’t seem to get it right.

Weight is heavy on my shoulders thinking of the three goals I’ve allowed into my net. It happens, yet when our offense is off, the burden is harder to bear. I loathe losing. In fact, there is little I hate more in the world. Vancouver’s forward rushes toward me, and his stick pushes the puck over the ice with precision. Watching his eyes, the movement of his body, and the angle of his stick, I visualize the shot he’ll take. I don’t move into position until his stick raises, ready to strike. I can’t risk him changing course. He slaps the puck, and I’m already in place. Gloved hand extended, I stop it.

“Let’s go!” I roar from the net. My teammates, in possession of the puck, zoom down the ice as seconds tick off the clock.

We’re down by one with mere moments left on the clock. The best we can hope for is a tie, but that will get us to overtime, where we have a chance at a win.

To anyone else, Feldmore and Richards would appear to have it together as they pass the puck, but I see the hesitation there. Something’s off. Cade Richards slaps the puck to our center, Sebastian Calloway, in a new play we’ve been honing this week. Calloway is in position, but I know before his stick slaps the puck that it’s over. Some days, we have it, and some days, we don’t. We’ve been off this entire game.

The buzzer sounds as the Vancouver goalie hits the puck away, securing the win. The sea of dark-blue-and-green jerseys in the stands goes wild, the sound deafening as they celebrate their hometown win.

The six of us wearing Crane jerseys stand on the ice motionless for a second, stunned. On paper, we had this game in the bag. Yet unpredictability is what makes this sport so fun. The Canucks played better tonight, plain and simple.

Defeated, we exit the ice and make our way to the locker room.

“Well, that fucking sucked,” one of our defensemen, Jaden Lewis, grumbles.

“Let’s just get out of here and to the bar. Forget this whole night ever happened,” Maxwell Park, another defensemen, chimes in.

“Agreed,” Beckett states.

“It just wasn’t our night.” Cade sighs.

Thankfully, the coach’s post-game talk is short. We shower and change. Eddy, our equipment manager, collects our bags and equipment to return to the plane while the rest of us pile into cars and head toward a bar.

The bar scene in Vancouver is decent, not that it matters. As long as there is alcohol, our guys could have a blast anywhere. Undoubtedly, the drinks will be pouring tonight as we drown our sorrows. Or at least, most of them will. I’ll be sticking to my two-drink limit. The temptation to drink until I don’t remember the sixty minutes we sucked out on the ice is strong. But my reasons for not getting shit-faced are stronger.

Growing up with drunks in my house who pushed my mother around on any given night left me with the resolve to never be out of control. I know I’d never hurt a woman or become a drunk, but I don’t want to be without my senses. The thought of not having a clear mind or being in control doesn’t sit well with me.

The driver yammers about the snow on the short drive to the bar. I only half listen, the conversation doing little to keep my interest. It’s winter, and we’re in Canada, so it’s bound to snow. Instead, my mind goes over every second of the game, figuring out the moments we messed up. It’s the cruelest form of torture, really, since there’s not a damn thing I can do to change it.

The car skids to a stop outside a faded sign that says Frank’s. I’m not sure who chose our final destination, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. Though Frank’s is nothing special, the bar has drinks, which is all the guys care about.

Two beers go down entirely too quickly, and I sigh in irritation. Now, what am I supposed to do for the rest of our time here? The more the team drinks, the more annoying they become.

The moment she enters the bar, the air changes. I’m certain she’s here, though I’ve yet to lay my eyes on her. Why must I be so attuned to the bane of my existence? Penelope Stellars drives me batshit crazy, yet instead of ignoring her, my mind has decided to be aware of every step she takes.

“Hey, boys,” she says from behind me. I resist the urge to turn around. “Tough loss. We’re going to keep everything cool tonight, yes? Make my job easy?”

“Of course, Miss Penny. Would you expect anything less?” Beckett teases.

Penny scoffs. The sound causes my back to stiffen.

Unable to ignore her anymore, I toss a glance over my shoulder. “Princess,” I say in greeting, which is met with a scowl and a roll of her eyes.

Bash shoves his arm past me, a shot glass in his hand. “Do a shot with us, Pen.”

“I’m good. Thanks, though. I’ll be around if anyone needs anything,” she replies. I don’t have to see her face to know that she gave each person standing around the circle a warning look.

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