Page 82 of Breakneck Hockey

Gina sighs. “The statistics predict a Boston-Vancouver final this season.”

That’s not good. It’s Milton’s worst nightmare come to life. “Unless it was Biff showing up with a Farmer’s Almanac from the nineteen fifties, I think we can safely ignore those numbers,” I say.

Sutter smirks at myBack to the Futurereference.

“Better safe than sorry,” Milton says. “If we’re wrong, no big deal. If we’re right, our plan could save the City of Vancouver.”

“And more importantly, make us a lot of money,” Gina says.

I don’t know which one of them’s crazier, but they definitely have different motivations. Milton might be kind of a dick, but I believe he genuinely thinks he’s Vancouver’s savior.

“What’s the plan?” Sutter says.

“People have noticed how much you two brutalize each other on the ice. We thought we’d let you treat the audience to a little pregame banter. It’ll be light-hearted. Fun. Disarming. That way when we get to cup time, we can all remember we’re friends—just friends,” he adds and, yeah, that’s warning-tone octave. It also means that they probably know we’re actually fucking and that it’s not just internet lore.

“I thought the key was no fraternizing with Boston?” I ask.

“Gina here convinced me to switch tactics.”

“She did, eh?” Sutter says, frowning. At least Gina has the sense to look chagrined.

“Relationships are still a bad idea,” she reiterates. “The public goes psycho over that stuff as we’ve seen. We need to reel them in. This’ll be cute and family friendly.”

Nothing about me and Sutter is family-friendly, especially our bloodthirsty violence on the ice, but okay, lady.

In any case, I’ve heard enough. “Let’s just get this over with, so I can also do my pregame ritual.”

Sutter doesn’t look at me, but I know the fucker’s laughing to himself. I don’t have a pregame ritual and he knows it.

Everything’s fine until the damn lights blast me. My mouth dries up. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so they go through my hair a lot. So many people are watching this. Live. I think about Stacey. He took charge after Mom died. I would have been drowning in a hole somewhere if it weren’t for him. But that responsibility took a toll on my brother. Hockey’s providedus with enough money to remove the hard lines from his face. He can worry about menial shit like his love life instead of,will we make rent next month?Hell, he’s brought up the idea of buying a house. Yeah, buying a house in one of the most unattainable housing markets in Canada. But we can do that now. We have the capital.

I can’t ruin that for him.

The whole thing’s a blur, and before I know it, my mic’s taken. This suit’s too hot, and this room’s a lot smaller than it began. Fuck everyone. I have to get out of here. I bolt and run for … where? Don’t know. I turn down one hall, and then another, with the vague recollection that I’m in TD Garden. I dunno know where I am but there aren’t any people down this way.

My back cracks against a wall—oof—and I lose my breath. A real familiar aftershave scent accosts my senses.

“Fuck, didn’t mean to wind you, Alderchuck. C’mon, breathe for me, nice and slow.”

Sure, he didn’t. I’m gonna bust his chops as soon as I can breathe again.

Every breath is fire forced into my lungs. Like I’m trying to stuff air into a full place. I follow the sound of his voice to freedom, coming to my senses, and when I do, I give a mighty shove.

“This is all your fault. What a stupid fucking idea. Stay away from me, Sutter.”

His lips crush mine, which is the opposite of staying away from me. My brain knows this, but my body doesn’t get the message. It wraps a leg around him, pulling him closer, shoving my tongue down his throat. I lose my breath for a different reason—Sutter’s stealing all of it.

“Are you done having a temper tantrum?” he says between kisses.

“Not a temper tantrum, jackass.” I kiss him some more, but the itch to punch him in the face rises. I’ve never beat on himbeforea game. Maybe that’ll be my new pregame ritual.

He finally tears his mouth away, resting his forehead against mine, catching his breath.

“Are you okay?” he says.

Three little words, but I’m not sure he’s ever said them to me before. My heart races in all directions for different reasons.

“Not really, but I’ll live. How’d I do? I kinda blacked out.”

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