Page 28 of Offside Attraction

The guys groaned, and Jordan whistled. It was their thirty-second warning to sort their shit and get into a huddle. He grabbed his stick and waited in the open space between the showers and the sinks.

It didn’t take long for everyone to circle up. Jordan wasn’t in the mood for a peppy speech, but then again, that wasn’t really their style.

“The Cherry Pickers.” That was all he needed to say to get a chorus of head nods and grunts. “Tough team this year.” That wasn’t an understatement. In 2023 they’d upset Zambone It in the semis, and word was they picked up another winger with handles.

“Let’s breathe.” Jordan dropped a hand on Steele’s shoulder and watched the gesture move around the circle like a wave. When they were all connected, he dropped his head and inhaled through his nose.

Other teams might need to get jacked before a game. Lock in, get laser-focused, aggressive. Pucks Deep was not that team. Each of his players was already wound too tight to reach their full potential on the ice, and thanks to a dickhead comment from Nate three years ago, he’d forced them all to meditate before the game. Now it was a tradition bordering on superstition. Especially after they’d won the cup two out of the last three years.

They exhaled together, filling the locker room with white noise, then inhaled deeply a second time.

Bronze skin. Dark curls.

Jordan blinked, his shoulders tensing. The opposite of what should be happening on his exhale. He forced his lungs to refill and pushed the images out. Along with the sound of Rhonda’s breath in his ear. Her fingertips pressing into his back?—

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, and Steele gave him a look.

Exhale.

Three repetitions. No more, no less.

“Pitter patter, let’s get at ‘er,” Nate quipped after the last exhale, and Jordan snorted. If there wasn’t a Letterkenny quote at some point in the locker room, it wouldn’t be a proper pregame.

They lumbered as a team down the hall and made their way to the home team bench. Fans started cheering when they pushed out onto the ice. The rink was a modest one, with seating for maybe a couple thousand at best. The usual crowd was there—friends, family, and a handful of youth players from the area.

He took a few warm-up laps then joined his teammates for some passing drills. As he’d hoped, dropping into the game cleared his head of anything other than his skates and stick on the ice. Adrenaline coursed through him, and by the time he crouched at the face-off, he felt like the pressure in his chest might split his ribcage.

The moment the puck dropped, he snapped forward, his body coiled like a spring ready to snap. Jordan charged like a bat out of hell, his blades punishing the ice as he pushed himself harder. Faster.

Steele barreled up the right side, and with a flick of his stick, Jordan sent the puck hurtling over. Steele caught it just before number eighteen—a brute with shoulders like a barn door—decided to try his luck with Jordan. He braced for the hit against the boards, then jostled the dude, and took off.

A pass came his way, and he scooped the puck, cradling it briefly before slashing it forward toward the net. The goalie locked onto the puck, dropping low into his pads. In a split-second decision, Jordan veered right, aiming for the corner of the net just as he felt the solid smack against his stick. The puck spun high, arching up, and a slap of rubber on leather echoed as the goalie deflected it high.

Damn, close.

Jordan huffed, already tracking the puck as it spun down. A defender snagged it and took off past the blue line.

The game was fast and physical, just how he liked it. Since their two new guys weren’t starting until January, they all got plenty of ice time—too much sometimes—but it allowed them to get into good flow.

Jordan slammed into a defender, sending him sprawling, then took the puck and passed it to Wyatt. They worked their way up the ice until the crowd erupted in boos, and the referee signalled a penalty. Jordan glided to see Chubs skating toward the penalty box, his hands thrown up in frustration.

Chubs let out a string of curses, echoing in the arena. "That was a clean hit!"

The referee pointed to a spot on the ice. "Tripping, number twenty-two."

Chubs' eyes widened in disbelief. "He fell on his ass! Tripped over his own dumb ankles!”

The referee shook his head and motioned for Chubs to get in the box. Jordan skated over, dropping a hand on Chubs' shoulder. "Cook it."

Chubs grumbled but nodded, stepping into the penalty box. Jordan turned and skated back to the face-off circle. They were in the neutral zone, which meant Cam was going to attack the middle. Jordan kept his eyes trained on the ice so he didn’t tip the Cherry Pickers off.

He could already see their strategy. They were pulling pucks back and trying to spread his team out. They only had to survive the power play and then disrupt them. Make them uncomfortable, or they weren’t going to end with a W.

“Angles, boys,” Jordan called out.

They barely scraped by without giving up a goal, mostly due to Matty, their goalie, somehow spotting a puck going backdoor and diving for the save. When Chubs exited the penalty box, they were able to recover and stop playing on their heels.

Steele scored late in the first off a pass from Tobes, then Matty missed a puck in the second, which meant they were tied going into third period. After battling it out for eighteen minutes, Cam won a scramble, exploding along the boards toward the net. He kicked the puck up to Steele. He barely had time to flick it to Jordan to shoot it blind at the net. The crowd erupted as it barely rolled in past the post.

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