Page 10 of Going All In

“Do not go after Smithy, you hear me?” Bugsy said.

It was eerie how the man could read his players. It also made him a kick-ass coach.

“Understood,” Jake said.

“Good. Now the rest of you, we need to get our shit together in the second. Be smart. Don’t take garbage penalties. And no damn fighting. Get your heads in the game. We’re a stronger team than Carolina. They’re just below both wild card spots in the division and they’re hungry. Be hungrier,” Bugsy said to the rest of the room, and Jake tried not to wince at the garbage penalty dig.

He needed to rein it in and now. Ralph, his agent, was going to burst a blood vessel or five if Jake kept this up. Jake was in the final year of his contract. The Strikers had picked him up at the end of last summer when New York had been all but begging to dump him after a shittastic season and some questionable off-ice behavior. Strikers’ management wanted to see him get his act together before a possible contract was offered, and Ralph texted him after every goddamn game to remind him of that.

While he was playing better this season than the last one, he was still a hothead. But he was fucking good at his job. That should count for something. He’d always been all in when it came to hockey, and sometimes he took it too far. His stellar numbers had always balanced him out, but last year he’d been off all season and it’d frustrated the shit out of him. Which had led to more penalties. And more antics that he was not proud of.

“What’s up with you?” Harty asked, sliding in next to him on the bench, while Jake fixed the tape on his socks.

“Nothing. Just trying to play the game and win.”

“They’re gunning for you because they know they can,” Harty said, not saying anything Jake didn’t already know.

“Management is watching you, so cut the shit and play the game that we both know you can. I get that last season sucked, and that off-ice shit didn’t help, but you’re pulling decent numbers this season. Keep doing that. You want to stay here, right?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, then polished off the rest of his sports drink. A sports drink he used to endorse, until last season. Another thing Ralph was on his ass about.

But Jake felt like he needed to do more. When they both played in New York, they’d had their fair share of off-ice shenanigans. While Harty’s were always over-inflated, Jake’s were pretty accurate. While he wasn’t doing anything along the same lines here, he had to stop taking bullshit penalties. He’d always had a temper, but he’d also been a great forward, and his skills used to overshadow what he was doing off the ice.

But nothing could gloss over what he’d done last year.

“I know. I swear, I’m working on it.” Fuck. He was tired of doling out the same canned response time and time again.

“Good. Now get out there and score a goal or two to make up for it.” Harty tapped Jake on the knee with his fist, then stood up and walked over to Cheesy.

Harty had gotten one of the As at the start of the season. He was a solid choice, working well with Cheesy, their captain, and the two other alternates. Jake had never had the A. Even in New York. And he was fine with that. He just wanted to do his job and play the game that he’d loved since he was a kid in Chicago begging his mother to pay for hockey gear and ice time.

Cheesy got everyone’s attention and gave a quick and concise pep talk along the same lines as Bugsy, but the man threw in at least one joke. He did every game. The guys razzed him about his girlfriend, Amanda, prepping him, but he just shrugged with a smile and told them to get their asses out there.

Jake followed the rest of his teammates down the tunnel and slid across the bench. He bounced his leg in anticipation. He was going to finish this game strong and avoid the box.

***

Halfway through thesecond period, Harty streaked up the ice, with Jake trailing closely behind. Baz had managed to score a goal one minute into the period, so they were only down by one after being unable to slip anything past the goalie during a power play.

Carolina’s top defenseman tracked every shift Harty made, and Jake caught the slight nod from his linemate before the puck headed his way, bouncing off the middle of the tape on his stick. Jake twisted to keep the puck in possession as the other Carolina defenseman tried to poke it away. Jake managed to duck out of the way a split second later and avoided getting hit into the boards.

He skated around the back of Carolina’s net, looking for his shot, before he spotted Harty and quickly passed it to him. Harty had the angle, and the puck landed perfectly. Then he fired right between the goalie’s hip and barely raised blocker pad.

The goal horn blared, red light spinning, and he was skating toward Harty. The rest of his teammates on the ice crowded around the goal scorer, hugs and helmet taps all around.

Finally, they were tied. It was a start, at least.

Jake had played it smart. Could he have tried a bit longer to get the goal on his own? Sure. But playing as a team went further with management than being a showboat. It’d taken him a few years in the league to understand that.

***

A few shiftslater, Cheesy got the go-ahead goal. At the start of the third period, the Strikers were up by two. Carolina started getting chippy and one of their defensemen drilled Timmy into the boards. The hit was bad, but the refs called it clean as Timmy slowly made his way to the bench and down the tunnel.

Smithy was asking for a punch in the face. Jake had steered clear of engaging with the prick, narrowly evading a slash from the forward, but now the guy had Harty cornered along the boards close to the Strikers’ net.

Harty got free with the puck on his stick, but Smithy was practically on top of him. Then his elbow came up, catching Harty perfectly in the throat to knock the man’s head back before one of the other Carolina forwards snagged the puck from Harty.

Smithy shoved Harty into the boards. No whistle sounded as Harty shook his head and picked himself back up.

Every thought aside from taking Smithy out escaped Jake’s head and he was on the guy, gloves dropped in seconds. Adrenaline rushed through him, stealing his common sense, as he held onto Smithy’s jersey in one hand and got in a few right hooks. Helmets came off and Jake had the guy flat on the ice before the linesmen pulled them apart.

“Dammit, Jake,” Harty shouted when the ref yelled for Jake to get in the box. Five minutes for fighting.

“What about that hit on Harty? The asshole gets nothing for that,” Jake fired back.

“You started that fight, Northman,” the ref said.

He had. But he’d had a damn good reason. Not that it seemed to matter as he skated to the box.

He was going to hear about this from everyone under the fucking sun. His phone was probably blowing up with texts from Ralph at this very moment.

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