Page 46 of Crossing the Top Line

“And what a good one. That’s Jokinson’s first NHL goal. Someone save that puck,” Gene replies, laughter painting his words.

I’m publishing my post, when noise from the game pulls my eyes back to the screen. The crowd is on their feet, screaming as Forrest skates out of the box, throwing his gloves to the ice as he charges the bench, straight for Eli, whose back is turned.

But before Forrest gets more than three good strides in, another figure comes in from the blue, royal purple gloves long gone, his fist connecting squarely with the Flyers player’s jaw. I gasp, moving to the edge of my couch cushion, trying to will the camera to get a better angle. It’s not Owen; the skater’s too tall. But as helmets go flying, I spy black curls for a flash before Spencer throws another punch, this one landing more on the side of Forrest’s head. It’s over before it started, the refs shouting and pulling Spencer off Forrest, trying to get both players to go back to their respective benches.

I’m almost too absorbed in the action, only faintly remembering to do my job. I look away long enough to post about the fight, ears still tuned in to the commentary.

The penalty comes in as five minutes for fighting for both of them, along with two-minute instigator penalties—Forrest for dropping his gloves first, Spencer for throwing the first punch—while Forrest is handed an additional ten for starting the fight immediately after leaving the penalty box. That leaves the teams playing four-on-four hockey for the remaining minute and a half of the period, the other thirty seconds to be served at the start of the next. Both teams will be able to go back to even strength then, but Spencer will still have to cool his heels for five minutes before he can play again. Forrest will have to sit out most of the second period, but he’s damn lucky he didn’t get ejected from the game entirely.

By the time I’m able to get all of it straight and posted, I only catch a glimpse of the back of Spencer’s head as he heads down the tunnel toward the locker room. There’s no comment about his departure, but my heart still twists. Even though I may not be on good terms with Spencer, I’m not so cruel as to wish injury on him.

The buzzer comes through to end the period, both teams going back to their locker rooms. It takes less than two minutes before the text comes through.

Elijah: I didn’t do any fighting, but can I still get a kiss when I get back?

Me: First, I never agreed to anything with kisses. And second, even if I did, you’d have to get boo boos to have them kissed better.

Elijah: Say less.

Me: Don’t you do anything stupid, Eli!

I don’t get a response, and that honestly terrifies me more than anything he’s said all night. I don’t think he’d actually put himself in harm’s way intentionally just to get my affection, but that man is a wild card.

A Joker, one might even say.

BythetimeI’min my seat on the team plane, I’m ready to pass out.

This may have been the most intense game of hockey I’ve played in years. And it’s only game five of the season.

All told, I put four points on the board, one goal and three assists. I don’t know what Eli was on tonight, but I only hope he has more of it, and some to share. He went from having no goals in the NHL, to his first career hat trick.

Speaking of the devil, he flops into the seat on my left, Oliver in the seat across the aisle from him. I can barely keep my eyes open as I look up at him, wanting to be surprised by how much energy he still has, but failing.

“Great game tonight, BlackJack,” he quips, voice low in the dim light of the plane.

I quirk an eyebrow, guard up. But before I can ask any questions, he shows me a post from the Mystic’s social media account.

@NOLAhockey: Jackpot for the Casino Line! Joker with a beautiful goal, assisted by Ace and BlackJack.

There’s a video replay of the final goal of the night attached to the post, and we’re all tagged, so there’s no mistaking who Tori is posting about.

“People are eating this shit up, man. Tori’s hit pay dirt,” Elijah comments, pulling his phone back as a notification comes in.

He moves too quickly, so I can’t see the name of whoever he’s texting, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to guess. I press down the flare of jealousy, reminding myself I don’t have anything to be jealous of anymore. Tori made herself perfectly clear. It is a bit of a cold comfort to know that even if Eli is texting her, everyone I’ve asked has told me she doesn’t date hockey players, full stop.

Eli puts his phone in his pocket before turning back to me, his smile less manic and more genuine.

“Thanks for throwing that punch, Spence. You didn’t have to do that,” he says, eyes softening.

I want to tell him that I absolutely did have to throw that first punch. Not only because it wouldn’t have been a remotely fair fight if Forrest had gotten his hands on my linemate, but because my alpha instincts demanded that I intervened. It’s not the first time my primal mind has perked up and taken notice of my short-statured linemate, but this was the first time it was so loud that I acted before I had a chance to rein it in. But I don’t dare admit something like that out loud, not with Oli sitting on Eli’s other side. Someone walks by, heading toward the rear of the plane, and a draft brings a wave of his scent to my nose, tart with cranberries and ozone. I relax and put my fist up for him to bump.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, smiling back.

Eli bumps my fist before shifting across the aisle, taking the window seat on the other side of Oliver. My other linemate barely notices, his head tipped back and resting against the seat, eyes half open but looking at nothing. I shift one seat over, leaning across the aisle.

“Besides, you wouldn’t have been able to reach Forrest’s face if y’all squared up,” I tease, smirk wide.

Eli looks confused for a moment before he growls, lunging to shove me back into my seat. Oliver jolts, getting between us, grumbling something about “dealing with children.” Thankfully, neither of us can continue our squabble as the Fasten Seatbelt sign comes on, and a flight attendant announces our imminent departure.

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