Page 89 of Ice Mechanic

I resist the urge to look up at April. I wanted to earn the first point of tonight’s game, but the opposing team made it impossible by closing me off every time.

If Gunner had been as targeted as I was, he wouldn’t have made the first goal.

It’s a selfish thought and I brush it away. Ego has no place in the game. What matters is we’re in the lead.

But it’s not for long.

The other team scores too.

We’re head to head.

As the momentum falters, the coach makes a flurry of substitutions.

I’m back in the game.

A fire lights under me and I cut down the ice, skating with my eyes on the goal. Renthrow and Gunner flank me on either side, waiting for a prime opportunity to score.

Renthrow gets control of the puck first and he passes to Gunner who gets stuck at the point, an area just outside the opposing team’s blue line. Gunner shouldnotbe so close to the boards, but our defensemen are on the other side of the rink.

Gunner passes and I take possession of the puck. An opposing defenseman skates toward me and I instinctively flick my stick. I don’t even realize it’s a flip pass until I hear the faint roar of the crowd and the announcers screaming about the play.

“Did you see that? McLanely did not come here to waste time!”

Head whipping back and forth, I calculate the best opportunity to shoot straight past the goalie. A shadow breaks my concentration. It’s number thirteen flying at me.

I shift my weight from my left leg to my right. Instinctively, I send the puck hurtling toward the goal just as thirteen slams me into the boards.

My helmet ricochets off the clear surface. Beyond me, the crowd grimaces and I hear a collective ‘ooh’.

The puck skids against the goalie’s stick and deflects.

I missed.

Faintly, I hear the announcers goading me.

“Oh, that was a nasty slam.”

“Are we about to see a classic McLanely meltdown?”

“They better get that penalty box ready, Stu.”

I lunge forward, not thinking about anything but teaching that smuck a lesson. Penalty box or no, who does he think he is?

My hands are outstretched and ready to grab number thirteen by the back of his gear. On the way, I catch a glimpse of a bright, sparkling red dress.

April.

“I don’t like violence in the middle of the game.”

It’s what she said to me the first day we met.

My body slows and my hands lower before I realize I’ve made the decision to stand down. My eyes skim past number thirteen who’s on his way to the penalty box.

I look through the crowd.

And then I see her.

April.

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