Page 64 of Defensive Zone

Chapter 12

Max did a few laps on the Strikers’ half of the ice that night. It was the last game of their three-game road trip, and if all went well, they’d be heading home tomorrow morning with six points. He’d started his NHL career in Carolina what seemed forever ago, but he’d been traded to the Strikers two years later and was forever grateful for the trade. He’d been in San Francisco for eight years and the Strikers were his home.

He had to hope that it would stay that way. He didn’t like to think about it, but the new Houston team and the expansion draft weighed on him. Without a no-movement clause in his contract and three years left on it, if the team didn’t protect him, he’d be up for grabs.

Sometimes he cursed his agent for not getting a NMC in his contract four years ago. He was pretty sure that the Strikers would protect him, but nothing was ever guaranteed in this sport.

He pushed aside his negative thoughts and focused on tonight. He’d been on fire all season, and lingering doubts weren’t going to help him at all. He lined up with the rest of his teammates as they took turns firing pucks on Gally in the net. He shifted on his feet, his antsiness growing as it always did the closer he got to puck drop.

After a few minutes of hitting the puck, he moved toward the boards near center ice and stretched out his hips, dropping down to get a deeper stretch in his legs.

“Hey, Lamby, what’s up?” he asked Lambert, one of his old teammates, who was stretching next to him.

“Hey, Chewy, what’s shaking?” the Carolina defenseman fired back.

Max barked out a laugh. He’d known Lamby, or Lamb, as most of the league knew him, since they were kids playing in midget and then junior hockey in Montreal. Then they’d started their rookie seasons in Carolina, and Lamby had been on the team ever since. They still played in a summer pro league back home occasionally. Max had been spending most of his summers in San Francisco in the last few years while he finished up his degree. He only took brief trips home, so it’d been a few years since he’d played in the pro league up there.

Maybe they could all head back home at the end of the season. Gabi, too. Though he was pretty sure that Lamby had tried to get Gabi to go on a date with him when they were growing up, so maybe he’d keep everyone in San Francisco this summer after all.

He bit back a chuckle. She’d probably call him a Neanderthal for that. Not that he minded one bit when she called him that.

“Not much. Just gearing up to kick your ass,” Max said.

Lamby chuckled. “We’ll see about that. And lay off the Lamby shit. Makes me sound like a cartoon character or that puppet thing.” He shuddered. “Still have nightmares about that sock puppet.”

Max grinned. The man was a bruiser and almost as burly as Max, but he had more teeth and a tamer beard. It’s why the nickname was perfect.

“Don’t even think about sending me one, you fucked-up bastard,” Lamby said, shaking his head.

“Don’t hand me shit on a silver platter, moron,” Max said.

“Forgot who I was talking to,” the man muttered.

“First mistake,” Max said.

“Maybe I’ll send that mug of yours into the boards tonight.”

“Like you could catch me, old man,” Max taunted.

“You’re six months younger than me, you idiot,” Lamby said, laughing.

“But years younger in spirit,” Max boasted.

“Get out of here, youngin’. See you in the boards later,” Lamby said and headed off to join the rest of his teammates.

One of the best parts of being in the league this long was that Max had played with many different players in junior hockey, the pros, summer leagues, and international play. They would go at each other on the ice, but really, they were a big group of friends off it. That’s why he loved hockey and would play it as long as he could.

Halfway through the first period, he tracked the movement of the Carolina forward he was watching as Harty and one of Carolina’s wingers dropped down over the face-off dot. Harty won the face-off and the puck hit Jake’s stick. They’d started in the Strikers’ end, but Max had never been a stay-at-home defenseman, so when Harty, Jake, and Cheesy crossed the center ice line and moved toward Carolina’s goalie, Max moved up with them.

Carolina hadn’t been great this year, or for the last few years, but every team won some games, so letting his guard down thinking it was an easy win wasn’t an option.

Jake passed the puck to Cheesy, who knocked it back to Max, hovering just inside the Carolina end. As the Carolina players shifted toward him, Max took his shot. The echo of it ringing off the pipes rattled his ears, but Harty got the rebound and sent it five-hole between the goalie’s legs.

The goal horn blared.

“Fuck yeah,” Max yelled as he barreled into Harty, Jake, and Cheesy for a hug. He banged on Harty’s helmet and smacked him on the back in glee.

“Fucking right, Harty,” Jake yelled. “Right between the legs.”

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