Page 2 of Playoffs & Promises

Skate, shoot, score.

Lemons.

Maria.

My rhythm falters, and just as I'm reaching the goal where Dan is set up, I wind up and flex the stick to start the sweep. My stick moves as I bring it closer, and my knee twinges, sending a jolt up my leg just as the sweet sound of the sweep rings in my ears, but the twinge was enough. The puck is in the wrong spot now. My stick hits the puck at the wrong angle, and instead of snapping it into the open net of the goal, the puck is sent into the goal post.

The sound rings like a gong announcing my failure. The team is silent behind me.

Dan didn't even need to touch it, and even with his helmet on, I can see the pity in his eyes.

It's official. I'm having the worst season of my career, and the season hasn't even started. I don't bother looking at anyone else as I skate to where Coach has set a lemon on the ice. Looks like I'm first in line for the lemon line.

The game moves on, the rest of my team and even the coach and assistant coach all playing for the lemon bar. Nate scores, as does Shane, and a couple others initially. For all of them that join me in the lemon line, Dan blocked the shot. The line moves down to Nate and Shane and it's proof of why they're both on the team.

Fans and experts speculate when Nate will retire, the man is in his thirties and most players his age don't have the ability to keep up. Nate is proof that experience outweighs youth as he squares up against Dan. The two of them have been on the same team for a long time, and Nate does a quick change-up of the angle and with a backhand shot sends the puck into the net.

Nate alone is left in the lemon bar line, earning the box with my lemon bar in it. When he looks my way I give him a nod of respect. He earned it.

He grins, and pulls off one of his gloves in order to lift the lid off the box. Then he lifts the big square lemon bar out. It's covered in powdered sugar, and has a thick yellow layer of lemon curd on top of Maria's heavenly shortbread cookie crust. The combination of sweet and tart is perfection, much like the baker herself, even if she hates me for no rational reason.

I frown at that thought and wish I knew what went wrong where Maria is concerned. Asking her certainly hasn't provided clarity. Not even Hannah or Nate's fiancé Lia have been able to get the story out of her. The beautiful stubborn woman is determined to hate me, and I'm determined to win her over.

Nate skates over to me, powdered sugar on his fingers as he licks them clean. "I see why you love these so much and won't let the rest of us have any."

I grunt in response. It's easier than admitting to the truth, I hate lemons.

The acidic abominations all belong in the dumpster as far as I'm concerned. Except for the fact that I need them. Without them, I lose and I can't lose.

"Lemon line, let's go!" Coach shouts.

I'm first again to no one's surprise. Squaring off against Dan is no joke, he's big, and fast. So am I.

Skate, shoot, score.

Lining up the puck is the easy part, and it goes exactly where I want it this time. I don't even have to watch it glide across the ice and straight into Dan's waiting glove. That's where I wanted it to go.

Traditions, superstitions, and rituals. As I look around the team I can name each one of theirs, and my oldest superstition started on the lemon line. I come to a stop at the back of the line, and we repeat the rounds. Each time I shoot I miss and take my turn at the back of the line. Shane takes two times through the line before he scores . Coach hits the puck, and Dan makes a show of trying to stop it and failing. Then it's just scoreless me on the line with the yellow lemon sitting on the ice.

Coach picks it up and holds it out to me. "Hoffman, you've won yourself a lemon."

I nod, and take the lemon from him. Checking the peel over to make sure it's good, and that it isn't mushy. I made that mistake once only to discover a lemon that had turned after biting into it. This lemon though, it's still as perfect as it was when I gave it to Coach before practice this morning.

Bracing myself, I lift the lemon high to toast my team, and then before I can hesitate I take a bite big enough that I'll need to spit out a couple seeds. The team cheers and laughs, and one by one they all slap me on the shoulder or give me a fist bump. Shane even pauses for an extra moment to tell me, "Your energy's better now." Then he skates away with the other guys toward the locker room now that practice is over.

Coach shakes his head, and now that the others are gone he tells me. "Two years in a row. I'd have thought you'd be sick of eating lemons by now."

"That why you stole my lemon bar?" I ask him.

"Thought those were your new superstition."

Shock leaves me speechless.

"What? Were you trying to keep that a secret?" He asks. "When it comes to this team I know everything. While eating lemon bars might not be on the approved list the trainers hand out, it worked last season."

Accepting that he knows I shrug. "It's a whole lot better than biting into a lemon every game."

He makes a face. "That's what you did before?"

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