Page 27 of Power Play

However, in the spirit of “staying strong” tonight against the sexiness that is Duke Harrison, I pulled on my ten-year-old Red Wings jersey just before leaving my apartment this evening.

A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do, and all that.

There’s a bit of surprise among us when we realize that our seats are just behind the penalty box.

“This is amazing,” Casey whispers in awe as she takes her seat, “I’ve never been this close to the ice before.”

Caleb sits on the other side of me, so I am sandwiched between the twins. “I have,” he boasts, already digging into his nachos. “Remember that guy I dated a few months ago? Total Blades fan. If only he hadn’t smelled like bad B.O, we’d still be dating.”

I share a knowing glance with his sister. “Isn’t that the same guy you cried over for two weeks? The one who broke up with you for snooping around on his cellphone?”

Caleb shoots me a dirty look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really?”

“Okay, fine. He didn’t actually smell bad.”

Casey plants a hand on my shoulder, pushing me back, so she can see her brother. “You slept with his T-shirt for a month.”

With a harrumph, Caleb mutters, “Are we going to watch hockey or what?”

And with that, we settle in as the players, one by one, come onto the ice. There’s something about hockey that I find addicting. The easy answer is that I love the game itself, with all of its nuances and controlled chaos. The more complicated answer is that I love the swooshing sound of skates hitting the ice, the smell of popcorn and hot dogs saturating the air, the excitement radiating from thousands of people as the clock counts down to the moment when the puck drops to the ice and the action begins.

Seated behind the penalty box, we have a surprisingly good view of the rink, good enough, anyway, that I immediately spot Duke as he skates towards the goal. I catch the number twelve across his back as he turns away and drops a water bottle into the top part of the net.

Other Blades players take to the ice, all wearing the same navy blue and silver uniform. My hands delve into my over-the-shoulder bag, grabbing a notebook and pen. My scraped-clean Styrofoam plate goes between my feet on the cement floor.

The tension in the arena thickens as we all stand for the national anthem. The players take to their respective sides, and my gaze immediately latches onto Duke, who casually positions himself in the hole. His already big frame looks even more massive while wearing all the pads and gear. With his helmet shielding his head, he looks like a warrior ready to spar.

And spar he does.

The puck drops and the first period kicks off.

The next fifteen minutes aren’t so good, not for the Blades. They play sloppily, something that Casey and I rant about in between screaming at the ice.

“Jesus Christ,Holt, go for the fucking puck!” Casey shouts, banging her fists on the penalty box’s Plexiglas like a crazy lady when the Blades’ left wing fails to connect his stick with the rubber puck.

I’m no better.

My notebook is forgotten on my seat as I cup my hands around my mouth and yell, “Stop playing a bunch of pansies out there!”

My comment is directed at everyone, and the guys behind us laugh and join in on the hollering.

Then, the Red Wings’ forward shoots the puck into the five-hole, sailing right between Duke’s legs into the net.

“Oh,c’mon,” I grind out, before watching in fascination as Duke hooks his stick around the forward’s ankles and sends him sprawling to his knees.

It’s a dirty move, one that goalies sometimes play. But Duke has always been a clean player, preferring to play hard than to play cheap, so it comes as a surprise. Duke isn’t the player who hooks his opponents’ ankles. This isn’t to say that he won’t throw down gloves if the situation calls for it—some of his prior brawls on the ice have even made it into the top clips for ESPN.

This move is different, though, and even the sports commentator sounds a bit shocked when he announces, “And, woho-ho, Harrison pulls a clinger right there. Haven’t seen something like that from the Blades’ number twelve in a few years. Maybe the rumors are true . . . maybe Harrison is feeling the need to skip clean playing to stay at the top of his game.”

The whistle blows, calling for a penalty that has the whole crowd roaring with jeers and boos. With a shake of his head, and a quick spurt from his water bottle, Duke skates toward the penalty box.

In other words, he skates right toward me.

I see his narrowed eyes through the cage just before he whips off his helmet. At first I think that he’s pissed about his lousy play, but then I realize that his gaze is focused solidly on me.

Blue eyes rake over my Red Wings jersey, slowly sliding upward until our gazes clash. His brows come together and he scrubs one hand over his mouth.

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