Page 17 of Pucked and Pregnant

Exasperated, the rational part of my brain stomps off and locks itself in its room.

By the time we hit the third period, I’m pretty sure number 44 wants to murder me and spit on my grave.

Fuck, I love this game.

Eight minutes left. The score’s 2–1 in our favor. If they score, that’s possible overtime. If we score, this will be our last game playing them in the regular season until the Stanley Cup Finals, if they make it that far.

Everyone is on edge. I’m pretty sure I even catch Max throwing a few elbows.

I spy number 7 racing toward the goal as far across the ice from me as possible.

Coward.

Things are moving too quickly for me to get over there but I try anyway. He blows past Randy, sending the poor kid flying into the boards.

He passes it to his center to make the shot and…

Yes!

Jimmy blocks it like a champ.

Not so smug now, are you, number 7?

I give him the universal sign for blow me, which in hindsight was a fantastically stupid and immature move, even for me. I swear he gives me the exact same look my mother used to.

He barrels over to me no longer caring about the puck or what kind of penalties he causes on his way.

The closest ref is waving his hands frantically and blowing so hard into his whistle that he’s red in the face, but number 7 doesn’t care. I’m not sure he even hears them with the amount of crazy I see flashing in his eyes.

He’s big and unhinged, and some hockey players would be shitting themselves if he was coming after them.

Not me.

I can’t keep the grin off my face. I have been itching for this fight the entire game.

I slide out of the way at the last second, and he slams into the boards with a sickening thud.

Why move out of the way? You wanted to fight him, remember?

Yeah, but if I engage, it wouldn’t look like I was trying to avoid the fight and I’d end up in the penalty box.

It takes him a few seconds to peel himself off the boards and come after me again, and it’s like it’s all in slow motion.

His elbow digs into my sternum so hard it’s almost as if I’m not wearing pads at all. That’s when time decides to speed up again. We’re a blur of fists and elbows, our sticks, helmets, and gloves long forgotten on the ice.

The pain is blinding but I refuse to back down. Fighting is one of the only times I feel completely alive. I don’t care whether I win or lose—I relish every moment of it.

Suddenly, we’re like magnets with the same polarity, flying apart from each other. I feel a set of hands beneath my armpits and I realize I’m not moving under my own power anymore.

I turn my head and see Connor’s face. I grin. “Hey, buddy. Thanks for helping me out.”

“I swear on my skates, if you have a concussion, I’m going to kill you.”

“Don’t think so,” I say, pulling away to stand on my own. “Fairly sure this is pure euphoria.”

He groans, exasperated. “You need a fucking therapist.”

“That was therapy. Pretty sure the whole arena witnessed my session just now.”

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