Page 12 of For Pucking Keeps

I check my watch, wiping away the flour from the face, creating a dust plume all around me. Waving my hand in front of me I groan at the thought of dealing with flour in my hair. My hair day ritual is long enough. But that is a worry for tomorrow, right now, I have a kitchen to scrub and a game to watch. We still have time before the puck drops, we can do this. Applause to me for the use of hockey terminology.

Content with the fact all this dessert won’t go to waste, that it’s all going towards making someone less fortunate smile tonight, Lia and I get to work. So, I didn’t write, but this day hasn’t completely been a waste.

TEN

TOR

“Mountain!”

“Mountain!”

“Mountain!”

The energy pouring from the crowd of roaring fans spurs me on, my adrenaline is through the roof tonight. The nickname started a few seasons ago. My teammates call me Tor instead of Torrance, but the fans took it a little further, calling me mountain instead. I love it. I love their excitement, it feeds my own thrill for this sport, for the feel of the ice underneath my feet, the fight, the drive—winning.

Tonight’s game against the Chicago Ravens has been bloody and brutal, with neither team wanting to lose. Let’s just say the refs are looking a little wild eyed themselves from all the glove dropping going on during the first two periods. Chicago has been fighting to catch up since I assisted Ridley with the first goal of the night. We’ve already won the first two games of this series, and I plan on flying home tonight with another. I can sense it with a calm surety. This game is ours.

The chanting continues, but I have my eyes on the prize. The ice is wide open in front of me, I zero in on the net, keeping my eyes on the puck. With a quick glance, I check Chicago’s goalie, Zeke Stetson. He hasn’t been on his usual A-game tonight, and I am all about taking advantage. As the clock runs down on the last minute of the third period the chanting goes quiet in my ears, the only sounds I hear are the swoosh and scrape of my skates against the ice, the calm beating of my heart along with my easy breathing. I am aware of Devan to my left, and Jones to my right as they fight it out to keep Chicago away from me as I break away. The sound of colliding and crushing of bodies against the boards behind me is all the background noise I register as I give all my attention to the shifting goalie. Powering down the ice at full speed, deking the puck in rapid succession, left and right, keeping Stanley’s eyes working as I distract him with my footwork, dragging my skate behind me as I approach, then with a shift of my hips, I shoot, just before the clock counts down to zero.

“Goal! Vipers win! Vipers win! Five to one!” The announcer shouts and the crowd loses their shit as hornsgo off around the arena. I do a victory turn around the back of the goal, pointing towards the camera, I bow for the people watching at home. But really, at that point, the bow is for her. I hope Jaz gets a kick out of my dramatic flourish. I know she’s watching. I’ve been checking in with Lia like a creeper, though I haven’t reached out to Jaz since our text exchange days ago. You know, keeping things professional, keeping my brain focused on hockey, and not the beautiful goddess of a woman I can’t wait to see.

Devan and Ridley come out of nowhere with their arms outstretched, sticks raised high, crushing me between them and pulling me from my thoughts. Soon, Jaz. Very soon.

“Fuck yeah, Tor! That’s how you close out a series, baby!” Ridley yells in my ear as more and more of my teammates crowd me.

“I need a special song for tonight’s victory dance. I might rock out with my cock out tonight!” Devan shouts as he jumps around the mass of bodies.

I laugh. “Please don’t. No one wants to see your dick more than we already have to,” I say as more of our teammates join us in celebration.

I look at my team, all their sweat soaked faces, and I feel immense pride. I am pushed and pulled left and right, my helmet bumped, my jersey tugged as they all descend on me, triumphant and celebratory. I try tocapture it all, remember every moment, because these are the images that feed my determination to keep winning. This is the way to start the season, and as promised, we are going to ride this high to the finish. I know it’s too soon to say, but hell, I am going to manifest that shit. Stanley Cup, we are coming for you, baby.

“I’m in my Beyonce era for the rest of the season!” Devan shouts, standing on top of a bench in the locker room—fully dressed this time—navy blue suit jacket slung over his shoulders as he pumps his hands into the air. The opening drumbeats begin, followed by Devan’s hips rolling from side to side as he begins to belt out the lyrics. The man doesn’t have a shy bone in his body. He is a beast on the ice, but this side of him is for our eyes only. He jumps from bench to bench, hyping up the team as they celebrate with him. Grown ass men singing along, badly, but enjoying it all the same. I will never get tired of seeing my team like this.

“Here we go!” Jones groans, feigning disinterest, hiding his smile as he taps his brown brogues to the beat of Beyonce’sEnd of Time. As much as some of my teammates complain about Devan’s celebratory song and dance, they all look forward to the crazy defenseman’s musical offerings. It’s become a tradition, and it wouldn’t feel like a win if Devan didn’t climbon a bench and shake his ass to whatever came out of his phone.

The thumping beats ring out around the room as everyone rushes around to get dressed to fly home tonight. After three nights away from home, we are all anxious to board the plane. Jones keeps checking his watch, no doubt he wants to video chat with his wife and their three-year-old son before we take off. Those of us who have families to return to are always the first ones in the shower, suited and booted ready to walk through the flashing cameras of waiting fans and press. It never bothered me before, but I found I was just as anxious to leave as the majority of my teammates.

“Scott! Turn it off. Lennox is coming!” Coach George, the teams conditioning coach shouts, hands cupping his mouth so he can be heard over the music.

The entire room goes quiet as Devan quickly mutes the music as Coach Lennox enters the room. He walks into the center of the mayhem, crossing his arms over his chest, his face neutral as we all give him our full attention. Then he graces us all with one of his proud, satisfied smiles. Coach Lennox hardly ever smiles, honestly, it’s a little disarming, but after a night like tonight, I guess he is letting his stoic mask slip.

Ridley elbows me in the side as I fumble with the bar ofmy cufflink. “Someone’s pleased,” he mutters under his breath.

“Let’s keep it that way,” I reply, straightening my tie. As team captain, I know I will be thrown in front of the press, and I have no doubt they are going to attempt to grill me about the photo and Jaz from days ago. Of course our communications manager has warned them against asking these types of questions, but giving the press warnings is akin to tossing blood into a tank full of sharks and telling them not to go into a frenzy. One of them will be brave enough to ask me, regardless. Normally I wouldn’t hesitate to answer. I have nothing to hide, but I jumped into action when the picture was plastered all over the net, and I know I will be just as protective when asked about her on national television.

Coach clears his throat, bringing my focus back to him. “Did you feel it? Tonight gave me goosebumps, gentlemen, and that never happens. All the seasons we’ve played before this, all the near misses, it has led us here. All the hard work, blood, sweat, and tears, has led us here. Chicago was desperate out there tonight, yet y’all had them scrambling to catch up, and it is exactly the type of game we need to continue to play. Desperation leads to recklessness, so, going forward, we protect ourselves. Jones, Devan, Adams, and Keegan,” —he points to each defenseman—“I don’t condone fighting but make damn sure to keep the way clear for your teammates. If tonight is any indication on how the other teams will react to the pressure, I know there will be more attempts to bench the best of you. The other teams in the league have their eyes on us now, they are going to come for you all hard and fast. Are we going to let them?” he shouts with his hands on his hips as he takes a turn around the room eyeing us all.

“No!” We all shout in unison.

“Good.” Coach Lennox smiles. “Good job out there tonight. You’ll take a break tomorrow, rest, and then we’ll do this damn thing all over again with the home team advantage.” He nods, seeming pleased with his post-game speech, then walks out of the room without another word.

“Coach Lennox in a good mood is scary,” Bast says as he stands to grab his duffle bag from the floor at his feet. The rest of the team all begin to exit the locker room, murmurs of excited conversation, laughs, and playful banter on their lips.

“I’ll take his good mood scary over his disappointment scary any day,” Ridley replies, grabbing his own bag and pulling it over his shoulder to leave.

“Bailey, Masters, and Bergeron. You three are in the hot seats tonight.” The communication manager taps the doorframe then peeks through the door at us, smiling encouragingly, clipboard in hand with one of his nervous PR interns hot on his heels.

“I’m the goalie, I don’t do press,” Bast huffs indignantly, crossing his massive arms over his chest. Sebastian ‘Bast’ Bergeron played in Winnipeg where he was born and raised for the first three years of his professional hockey career. He was traded to the Seattle Vipers two years ago and he’s been exactly what our team needed. The man is a brick wall, his save percentage is the best in the league, and everyone has their eyes on him. I am not sure why Winnipeg let him go, but Bast doesn’t talk about his time with his old team and, well, I can respect his privacy. He stays out of the press and keeps to himself, so even I am shocked when his name is called.

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