Page 16 of Pucked and Pregnant

When I hear my name called over the speakers, I skate out onto the ice, only to be met by a roar of boos and verbal abuse from the crowd. We are the visiting team so it’s to be expected.

I know some of the guys on my team hate the introductions at away games, but I can’t keep the grin off my face. This is one of my favorite parts of the game, aside from playing it, of course. I’m sort of known as a bad boy. Everyone expects me to play rough so I don’t need to worry about winning the crowd over—they already hate me on principle.

The drive to New York from Boston is approximately four hours. We usually have a pretty good turnout of hometown fans that make the journey, and there is a scattering of New Yorkers that have the balls to be Boston fans. Meet and greets are always hit or miss at away games. Those along with press conferences take up time afterwards. I’m hoping to catch Liv’s first guest spot on the postgame show. They record it during the press conferences.

Depending on how the four of us play today, she might even mention one of us specifically on the show, and after watchingher commentary for the Minnesota Mad Dogs over the past few years, it might be fun to hear what she thinks of me.

That isn’t the reason I want to catch the show, though.

The guys and I are going to watch it for the same reason we watched her press conferences and guest spots when she was in the AHL—to support our best friend’s sister and her career.

Connor’s elbow in my ribs alerts me to the fact that everyone has their hands over their hearts except me. How did I miss the announcement for the National Anthem?

That’s it. No more thinking about Liv. You’ve got a game to win.

After the anthem, we get into our positions, and I become one with the ice.

The puck drops with a clack.

A guy is headed straight toward me or maybe I’m headed straight toward him. Either way, we collide hard enough for my teeth to rattle in my skull. We’re a mess of sticks, elbows, and shoulders in our fight for the puck.

Adrenaline is a hell of a drug and motivator.

Number 44 clocks me in the nose with his elbow, and I almost lose the puck.

Almost.

The feel of the blood from my nose dripping onto my lips is exactly the match I needed to light this powder keg. My fist collides with his face making it easy for me to take the puck from him.

There’s no whistle from the ref announcing the penalties so I’m assuming our face hits canceled each other out.

A blur of color to my left tells me that Max is there waiting for me to pass. My stick hits the puck with a slap and it goes flying over to him. He’s racing up the ice, Connor and Aiden flanking him.

So begins the battle up and down the ice for control of the puck.

Number 44 tries to start shit with me a few more times, but now that I know his tricks, I’m able to deal with him more efficiently.

I manage to steal the puck from him four times in a row before they swap him out for another right winger, Number 7. This dude has enforcer written all over him.

All that fuss over little old me? How flattering.

The cheers from the crowd become a deafening roar as soon as his skates touch the ice and I’m pretty sure he growls at me when he skates past.

This is going to be fun.

He’s fast, that’s for sure. I start sweating trying to keep up with him but keep up with him I do.

I am a problem, and I’m going to make damn sure he thoroughly understands that by the end of the game. Any time he comes into my defensive zone or my teammates’, I’m underfoot.

I get so close to him at times that I can smell the cheap cologne that he bathed himself in this morning.

Every time I duck a punch or trip him up, he gets angrier and angrier, which is exactly what I want. His anger causes him to play sloppily, making my job ten times easier.

My sole focus becomes agitating this man. If I can get him to hit me, not only do I get to fight him, but there’s a good chance he lands in the penalty box.

You’ll end up there too, moron.

Yeah, but he’ll be there longer if he instigates it. Well worth it.

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