Page 20 of Pucking the Team

Emma playfully shoves him away but he’s undeterred, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear with a smirk that I know all too well. His fingers linger on her cheek, and I feel my grip tighten on my stick, an irrational surge of irritation rising in my chest.

It’s not like I have any claim over Emma. She’s a coworker, one I barely know. But I’ve heard the way Lukas talks about her when she’s not around—the lewd jokes, the crass speculation about what she’s like in bed.

Like she’s just another puck bunny for him to conquer. Another starry-eyed fan for him to use and discard.

Emma deserves better than that. Any woman does.

And yet here she is, laughing at Lukas’s lines like she can’t see right through his act. Like she doesn’t know she’s just his flavor of the week. The rational part of my brain knows it’s not my place to intervene, that Emma is a grown woman who can make her own choices.

But the other part, the part that’s apparently still smarting from decade-old wounds, wants to put myself between them. Wants to tell her to run far and fast from smooth-talkers with devastating smiles.

I force myself to look away, to focus on the drills and not the building frustration bubbling under my skin.

But I can still feel it, the weight of unresolved history, the specter of betrayal that even now colors how I see my teammate.

How I see myself, in my weaker moments.

Lukas has skated away from Emma and is now up to his usual shit, pulling off flashy moves and shooting that cocky grin at the younger players who stare at him in awe.

I mentally rebuke myself, and try to focus on my own warm-up, blocking out the sound of his obnoxious laughter echoing off the walls. Just stick to the drills, I tell myself. Don’t let him get in your head.

But of course, Lukas can never resist an opportunity to screw me over. We line up for a standard breakout drill, me ready at the blue line waiting for his pass. I shout out the defensive call, but Lukas deliberately ignores me. The smirk on his stupid face tells me it’s no accident as he sends the puck flying to the opposing forward instead, leaving me completely hung out to dry.

The forward barrels towards me at full speed. I barely get my stick up in time to deflect the shot wide, my heart hammering against my ribs. When I whip around to confront Lukas, he’s already skating away, that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face.

Red bleeds into my vision, narrowing to a tunnel focused only on Lukas’s retreating form. My gloved hand grips my stick so tightly I’m amazed it doesn’t snap in two. I surge forward, chasing after him, not giving a damn about the drills anymore.

Suddenly, Slade appears in front of me, his big hand planted firmly on my heaving chest.

“Easy, man,” Slade says, his deep voice low and steady. “Don’t let him get to you. That’s what he wants.”

I suck in a ragged breath, slowly unclenching my fists inside my gloves. Slade’s calm gray-blue eyes hold mine, willing me to keep my shit together. He’s right.

Losing my cool now, right before this crucial game, would be playing right into Lukas’s hands.

I give Slade a tight nod. “Yeah. I know. Thanks.”

He claps me on the shoulder before skating off. I close my eyes briefly, pushing down the rage that’s building inside me. Later. I’ll deal with Lukas later. For now, the only thing that matters is playing my best damn game.

The team is counting on me.

When the puck drops to start the first period, I channel all my pent-up anger and frustration straight into my play. I ram guys into the boards with enough force to rattle teeth, scrambling for every loose puck, flinging myself in front of shots without hesitation.

But even as I pour everything I’ve got into the game, Lukas seems determined to one-up me at every turn. Near the end of the first, he unleashes a filthy deke, undressing not one but two defensemen before rifling the puck into the top corner. The red goal light flashes as the crowd leaps to its feet, roaring its approval.

Lukas glides past the bench, arms raised in triumph, drinking in the adulation. I feel the hot sting of bile rising in the back of my throat. It’s just like that goddamn college visit all over again—Lukas getting all the glory while I get stuck with sloppy seconds.

I know I’m being petty.

I know I should be focused on the team, on winning.

But I can’t help the jealousy coiling like a poisonous snake in my gut as Lukas laps up the cheers, the smug set of his jaw making me want to introduce it to my fist.

The clock ticks down to the final minute of the third period, and we’re clinging to a precarious one-goal lead. My lungs burn and my legs feel like rubber, but I know I can’t let up now. Not with the game on the line.

I dig deep, willing my exhausted body to keep battling as I chase down a loose puck in the corner. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lukas gliding into the defensive zone, his stick held lazily at his side.

“Lukas!” I bellow, my voice hoarse with desperation. “Pick up your man!”

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