Page 11 of Defensive Zone

Chapter 3

“Fight hard, stay out of the box, and let’s kick Florida’s ass,” Cheesy, the Strikers’ captain, said the following night during his last-minute pregame pep talk.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Max said, grinning as he saluted the man. Cheesy shook his head and smirked.

“Let’s do this,” Jamie Crawford, Crow to his teammates and the second half of Max’s defense pair said, slapping his stick against Max’s padded sock-covered shins.

They made their way into the hallway that would lead them to the ice. Max held back, waiting for almost all of the guys to go ahead of him. There was an order to this. Superstition. Routine. Whatever you wanted to call it.

He smacked Sully on the ass with his stick, chest bumped with Crow, and fired off a grin to Cheesy before he hit the ice. He wasn’t the most superstitious of the guys, that title belonged to Cheesy, but he had his quirks. They all did.

That’s what made hockey the best fucking sport there was. He’d lived and breathed the game for his entire life, and every time he stepped on the ice, let the smell seep into his lungs, he felt like he was home. The fact that he got paid to do what he loved, and paid a ridiculous amount on top of that, was icing on the cake.

The Strikers were deep into the season and holding steady in second place in their division, only five points below Vegas in the top spot. With only five weeks left in the regular season, they looked strong. Cup strong. He wanted to hoist that Cup over his head more than anything, and he truly believed this year’s team had a solid chance of doing that.

Not that they hadn’t looked good last year. Losing in game six of the West Coast Conference final last season had stung like hell, but it was a new season, a new year, and he was eyeing that Cup. They all were.

Max shifted on his skates during the anthem and opening announcements, and then he was sliding into his slot, ready for Cheesy to take the first faceoff.

It was on. He stayed close to center ice on the Striker side while Cheesy, Harty, and Jake shuffled the puck back and forth, heading toward Florida’s goalie. One of Florida’s wingers snagged the puck before Harty could pass it to Jake, and Max was ready, tracking the puck while he skated backward.

He checked the winger into the boards halfway into the Strikers’ zone as they jostled for the puck. Jake managed to get the puck on his stick and then they were off again. Max grinned and threw himself into the game. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“That goal was fucking sweet, man,” Sully said, leaning over Crow.

“Wasn’t it?” Max gave a big toothless grin. No one wore their fake teeth during the game and it was rare to see an NHL player with all of his teeth still intact. It was the nature of the game. A puck to the face, a stick to the mouth, a fall, anything was possible, and the team had the best dentist to make them prosthetics to wear when they weren’t playing. Not that he typically wore his. His three missing front teeth were part of his charm.

“Modesty isn’t really Baz’s thing,” Harty said, shaking his head and grinning right back at Max.

They were halfway through the second period and up two to one thanks to Max’s goal a few minutes ago. Yes, he was a defenseman, but he was an offensive defenseman. His goal count would never be as high as the forwards, but he still put up decent numbers every season. He’d actually played as a winger when he was a kid before moving into a defensive position.

What team didn’t want a player that could do it all?

Plus, he had a slew of other amazing qualities: hockey smarts, regular smarts, humor. He was even a media darling and a locker room morale booster. Hell, that last one should be his team title. Hopefully, all of that would keep him in San Francisco, but dwelling on that got him nowhere, and he’d just scored a fucking goal, so he needed to focus on tonight.

He’d glanced up at the family box after his goal and saluted his family. He couldn’t see what was going on up there, but he’d bet anything that Connor and Amelia were on their feet cheering. They rarely got to see him play, and even if the circumstances that brought them here weren’t great, he was loving all the time he got to spend with them and Elise and his sister.

And Gabi.

Shit. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? She definitely wasn’t thinking about him unless it was about how irritating he was. He chuckled, thinking about her muttering over his hockey bag yesterday and her adorable little yelp when he popped up next to her.

He wondered if she was up there wearing his jersey. Ava and the kids all had Bastian jerseys, so he’d grabbed one for Gabi, almost daring her to wear it. She’d bristled when he’d given it to her. “Like I want to wear your name across my shoulders, Max,” she’d muttered.

He’d stupidly wanted to kiss her at that moment. Aside from the fact that she clearly wasn’t interested, she also wasn’t his type, and even if she was, he was not going there. She was Ava’s best friend and his sparring partner. No need to mess that up.

Even if she had perfectly plump lips that he wanted to nibble on.

“Yo. Baz. Hello.” Sully’s voice brought Max back to the present.

“What?” he asked, like he hadn’t been lost in thoughts he had no business having.

“Scoot, man,” Jake said, leaning over Harty from Max’s other side.

“What the hell has you so distracted?” Harty asked.

Then someone swatted the back of Max’s head and he turned to quirk a brow at Seibs, one of the assistant coaches.

“You ladies done chatting? Pay attention,” Seibs said.

---