Page 4 of Knotted Laces

That’s par for the course in professional hockey.

And since we’re the away team tonight, the jeers from the Grizzlies fans mean we’re doing something right.

I grunt as I take the elbow to the back of the head, but don’t give up the puck.

Instead, I focus, ignore the pain that radiates down my neck, tensing my core, digging my skates into the ice, and look for my teammate.

Rome cuts hard toward me, exactly like we planned, freeing up space, moving along the play we drew up, giving…

King the lane.

Before I can take advantage of that, my face is all but slammed into the boards, another fucker from the Grizzlies coming in hot. He’s big as shit with a long, scraggly beard.

Connor Smith.

Or Smitty, as he’s colloquially know to the hockey world at large.

Nice guy.Funnyguy.

But pain in the fucking ass to play against.

Another shove has me eating glass, but I’ve delayed long enough. “Fuck,” I grit, shoving back and flicking my stick, sending the puck flying toward the center of the ice.

King sweeps it up, drives toward the goal, and?—

The crowd roars in happiness as he’s slashed hard and loses the puck. In a flash, the play swings the other way, the Grizzlies taking control and sprinting toward our end of the ice.

And just that quickly we’re on defense, chasing down the other team, hauling ass to protect our goalie.

Digging in.

Not giving up.

The entire game is a grind, spending sixty minutes trying to eke out a win, something we don’t quite manage in the end.

Which means that the mood amongst my teammates is shit as we exit the ice and move down the hall to the locker room. It’s just a game, but it’s our livelihood and we get paid the big bucks to win—literally, since the Eagles gave me my first big seven-figure contract. So, losing in any capacity is unacceptable, but most especially in the playoffs.

Expected.

But still not good enough.

Especially when the play I came up with resulted in the goal that cost us the game and put us down in the series.

Cursing under my breath, I drop my helmet into the bin the equipment guys have wheeled in to the center of the locker room and sink down onto the bench so I can change out of the rest of my gear. The space is quiet, most everyone pissed off and sulky like the man-children we are. It’s frustrating, especially after working our asses off, even more so when it means that we’re going to have to battle even harder.

At least we’re close enough to Oakland that we can drive ourselves home and I don’t have to wait for my teammates so we can board a fucking bus or plane.

King drops down next to me with a sigh. “Tough one,” he grumbles as he rips his jersey over his head, sending it sailing across the room and into another bin.

“Tough one,” Pat, resident asshole on the team, sneers. “Fucking brilliant, King Bang.”

Duncan, the team’s manwhore—who’s never met a woman, or man for that matter, he isn’t interested in fucking—chuckles like the dumbass he is. And, as always, he has to chime in. Today it’s with the gem, “Whatever gave you that idea?”

I roll my eyes, start yanking at my skate laces.

King just shakes his head and tears at the Velcro on his shoulder pads.

Rome, our captain, just grunts in response, ignoring both Tweedledee and Tweedledum and the smirk they exchange.

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