Page 47 of Power Play

Every so often, his head turns my way. He’s assessing my form. Checking out the strength in my ankles and my grip on my stick. He watches when I pull my shoulders down, darting straight for the net, swooshing my stick back and forth as though a rubber puck is actually being carried down the length of the rink.

“We going to play anytime soon?” he calls out, pulling out a puck from his sweatshirt pocket. He drops the biscuit on the ice, drawing my gaze down the length of his massive body. In his skates, he’s nearly a head and a half taller than me.

I tilt my chin up to get a better look at him. “You just going to let me shoot on you?”

“Open net,” he counters, flicking the puck off the ice with his stick in a show-off move. “Let’s see what you’re made of, Denton.”

I like the sound of that, mainly because I’m perfectly capable of holding my own.

We face off at the blue line.

“Who’s going to drop the puck?” My hands grip the butt end of the stick, and I force myself to loosen my hold. Rule Number Whatever in Hockey: Never clutch the shaft like you’re choking it to death. A loose wrist is everything.

Duke motions for me to hold out my hand, and then he drops the puck in it. “I’ll let you do the honors.”

“How sweet.” My fingers curl around the cool rubber. “Feeling chivalrous again?”

“It’s bound to pass soon. Enjoy the moment while you can.”

Sensing that his mood is back on the upswing, I chuckle and position myself at the ready. “You’re not going to let me win, are you?”

His gaze catches mine. “No way, Denton. I plan to savor this victory until the end of my days.”

We’ll see about that. Without giving him time to adjust, I drop the puck, make abzzzingsound with my tongue and teeth (no whistle, you know?) and hack away at the black rubber, sneaking it away from him.

I let out a little whoop as I skate toward his net, leveraging my weight forward to keep my momentum going. One of the reasons that I love this sport is because of the burn. The burn in my calves and the burn in my thighs as I push to gain more speed. The burn in my eyes as I zero in on the net, disregarding all other distractions. The burn in my lungs, when I—

The puck’s gone.

I twist around abruptly, years of practice allowing me to turn gracefully on the thin blades without falling flat on my face. Duke’s joyous laughter reaches my ears at the same second that I see him swing back and send the puck flying at the five-hole.

My net.

Meanwhile, I’m all the way down on the other end of the rink.

This is not okay.

I protest this out loud when he does a small victory lap around the net.

“That was dirty,” I mutter when we meet at the blue line again. “Your days of chivalry are over.”

He reaches out and cups my face sweetly, then kills the moment when he quips, “I told you to enjoy the moment, honey.”

I brush away his hand, now more focused on the match at hand than any sort of romantic canoodling. I’m not a good loser. Never have been and seriously doubt that I’ll one day learn that particular skill.

My hands tighten around the butt end, and I bend my knees in preparation to push off against the ice. “Let’s play.”

And so we do.

The game isn’t pretty, that’s for sure.

We battle over ownership of the puck, our sticks jockeying for control. No matter the fact that Duke usually spends his time in the net, he’s amazing on the ice. And he’s way better than I am—not that I let him know this.

We exchange trash talk like true professionals, delivering commentary about anything under the sun. He disses my stick handling. I insult the way he’s too scared to hip check me, in fear of taking on a woman.

He promptly thwacks the puck away, and I misjudge the distance I have to reach for it, and go down on my knees. My teeth clash together at the bruising contact.

When Duke offers me a gentlemanly hand up, I take advantage, yanking him down when he’s least expecting it, and drive the puck down the ice for a victory goal while he’s still down.

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