Page 71 of The Pucking Fake Marriage

I replay Faye’s words over in my head.

“Do you love him enough to do something about it?”

Fear is clawing up my throat again. But for the first time, there’s an undercurrent of peace beating away in my heart.

For the first time, I know what to do.

TWENTY

THE GAME CHANGER (KEN)

The first round of the playoffs. Biggest game of the season so far, the one that determines whether we drop out or continue on the path of winning the Stanley Cup.

And I’m on the fucking bench.

My teammates come streaming out to momentous applause. My jaw tightens as I watch them take their positions. Carl Strafer, one of the newer players on the team, takes his position as the center.

Myposition. Just seeing him there makes me want to punch something. Punchhim,more like. Not that it’s his fault, anyway. I’m the sole reason for my downfall.

The commentators overhead seem to have reached the same conclusion. “The Philly Titans have decided to bend to the overwhelming criticism and stick with Strafer over Edwards for this game.”

“Yeah, after their devastating brush against failure during their last game, the coaches knew they had to make some changes.”

A loud groan echoes around the stadium. I don’t need to look up to know that the media team is currently replayingthe events of our last game a week ago on the screens overhead. I’d somehow managed to whack both the puck and my stick straight at our own goal, securing a win for our opponents.

“Don’t know what’s going on, but Edwards is not in the right mindset this season. Plenty of close shaves for him. Just look at that awful play up there. What the hell was that?”

“Might be time for the Titans to think of retiring him permanently.”

More groans and boos. My fingers fold into fists. Being trash talked by the commentators is a rite of passage for all hockey players, but I could do without the boos. I try to focus on my teammates. Most of them appear to be sympathetic—Blake looks like he’s seriously considering going up to the booth and throttling the men. I can also see Alex across the rink. He’s seated on one of the lower VIP seats directly in front of the ice, looking every bit as pissed as Blake. His wife Britney is next to him. She gives me a weak smile. There’s an empty seat beside her, and for a second, I wonder if she came with their two-year-old. It’s kind of good their boy isn’t here, though, because there’s a limit to how many sympathetic expressions I can see before I start to gag.

All things considered, I don’t even deserve their sympathy. For two weeks, I’ve been hanging out in their houses far longer than I should be and bumming their wives out. They’ve done more than enough for me.

“This is weird, huh? I don’t think you’ve ever sat on this bench before.”

It’s Sam, another new recruit on the team. He looks beyond excited at the prospect of finally being a player that he doesn’t seem to mind sitting on the sidelines. That kind ofpisses me off, too.

“No.”

My tone seems to have clued him in to the fact that I’m not interested in talking, because he retreats and doesn’t make another peep.

The Boston Blades skate into the ring to loud applause. I listen as the commentators rattle off their rankings. My jaw feels even tighter. They’ve won every game since the beginning of the season. If we’d met them two games prior, we’d have fallen out of running entirely. It’s obvious that the crowd expects them to be the winners of today’s game.

The commentators seem to agree. Shortly followed by Coach Tanner, who glowers at me as he walks past the bench.

“Thanks a fucking lot, Edwards. Should’ve benched you while I had the chance.”

Yeah, you should have.

The game gets off to a rough start. I keep my eyes trained on Carl as he lines up for the face-off. He manages to win the draw against the Blades’ center as the puck drops. A mix of relief and envy churns inside me as he skates toward the opposing goal, with Blake and Luke flanking him. The Blades’ goalie quickly intercepts the puck and sends it flying down the ice, forcing our players to scramble back on defense.

It takes just two minutes for me to realize that, while Carl is a solid player, he doesn’t mesh well with Blake or Luke. Two or three times, he completely misses Blake’s signals to pass the puck, opting instead to go for Luke. He’s still green, not yet fluent in the unspoken communication I’ve developed with my teammates over years of playing together.

Coach Tanner is pacing by the bench, yelling obscenities. The crowd erupts as the Blades score their first goalof the game, slipping the puck past our goalie, Nelson. Just moments earlier, Carl had passed to Blake, not seeing that Luke was wide open.

“Damn it all to hell,” Tanner spits. I can feel his eyes on me, but I keep my gaze fixed on the ice. The last thing I need is another reminder of how this is all supposedly my fault.

The game resets, and thanks to some quick work by Blake and Luke, we manage to score, tying the game. But two minutes later, Carl fumbles an easy chance at a goal, and I can see Tanner turning purple with rage.

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