Page 56 of Faking the Shot

The light flashed, the horn blare was short, the crowd’s response muted to say the least. Playing away was good in some regards, but he missed the crowd’s support when they scored. He skated down the line and tapped his teammates’ gloves then took his place on the bench. Vancouver were up two to one, Logan having scored their other goal, Reilly the Wild’s one.

He sucked down an energy drink and focused on the game, ignoring the jawing of Reilly on the other side of the glass.

“That dude has attitude,” Drew said.

“He’s playing feisty tonight.”

Mitch had already had a shoving match with Drew and two minutes for a cross-check on a Vancouver defenseman.

The third line was tiring, so it was time for Zac’s first to return. There were three minutes left in this final period, so each line would get a solid shift before the siren blared for the end of play.

Zac jumped over the boards and got into position, taking the draw and sending the puck to Drew. He moved to the corner when a hard thump hit his back.

He went down on one knee, a whistle blew, and he forced himself upright. Stay down, and he’d be accused of being soft, wrangling the sympathy card from the ref. Get up too fast, though, and it could mean he wouldn’t draw the penalty that was deserved.

The roar from the crowd drew attention to a scuffle in the corner. Mitch and—Logan? For real?

“Parotti, you good?” One of the zebras checked on him.

He stretched his back. He wore padding, but there’d be a bruise tomorrow. “I’m okay.”

The ref nodded and skated away.

Zac stretched some more, waving off the team medic who looked like he wanted to come out on the ice. He waited next to Drew, watching the fight. He rarely fought—he’d rather use his skills than his fists—but some people had built their career on that reputation.

Fights might not be as prevalent as they were a few decades ago, and some might call this league’s administration soft because they tended to intervene more. As a player who often had a target on his back, he appreciated the fact that the men in black and white did what they could to stop players getting concussions and having their careers cut short because of somebody’s inability to keep their temper.

He joined the others in tapping his stick on the ice as the two men were finally dragged apart. He nodded to Logan, appreciating his support. Logan wiped away blood from his mouth as he headed to the penalty box. A fight like that earned both men five minutes in the penalty box. And while he was heartily pleased to see the refs had dealt with fights, he’d been surprised to learn it was because Logan was standing up for Zac for once. Logan was a walking contradiction.

The last minutes saw Minnesota pull their goalie to allow for an extra attacker, which meant a ramped-up intensity as Vancouver tried to stop them getting a draw. A draw at the end of the third period would mean going to overtime, which wouldn’t happen on his watch, not with three more games on this road trip ahead of them. Finishing now would be good.

The game ended with no change to the score, and the rest of the team traipsed back down the tunnel to their dressing room, while Zac was asked to wait. Then he skated on, having been awarded the announcer’s second star tonight. As expected, he met with some boos. But also some fans. He smiled, pointing to a couple of youngsters who looked to be siblings, judging from their similar shape and hair.

“Want this?”

They nodded, and he carefully boosted his stick over the glass. Only to see a middle-aged man snatch it.

“Hey!” He pointed to the kids, while the fans around the man protested.

The man tried to hurry up the stairs. The kids looked sad.

“Hey!” He banged on the glass. No way was some random dude making off with what belonged to those kids. Guys like that would probably try to sell his stick on eBay, whereas a kid would often grow up holding onto a game memento like it was a treasure. Things like this might seem trivial, but were one of the ways they could instill a love of hockey in the younger generation, so no way was some selfish tool going to spoil the night for these kids.

He pointed to a security guard, and by now the whole arena seemed aware, and the guy was blocked by several Wild fans who forced him to return. Zac flinty-eyed him, then pointed to the kids, and the man sheepishly handed it to the shorter one.

Zac nodded, and pointed to the kids and smiled. Then pointed to the crowd and applauded them, which earned him a bigger cheer than when he’d skated on for the second star. But that was what hockey was about. It was bigger than one person, and in this hockey-loving state, it was important to recognize the crowds who were as passionate about the game as he was.

“Classy act, Parotti,” a fan called.

He skated off, catching a few other commendations. He nodded, offering a little smile, but nothing that might get perceived as smug. He’d never wanted to come across as arrogant, even though he knew some thought he was. But awards and words tossed at him like “elite” tended to create that impression.

He finally joined the others, and moved to the corner to Logan’s stall. “Thanks.” He held out a fist to Logan.

Logan tapped it, then dropped his gaze, and Zac returned to his stall. He stripped off his jersey, threw it in the basket to get laundered for the game in two nights. He shrugged from his shoulder pads, wincing as a muscle tightened.

“You okay, Zac?”

He had to be honest, even if a twinge made him seem soft. “Just a pinch in my lower left trapezius.”

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