Page 77 of Trade Deadline

“You getting a little tired there, bud? Looking a lil’ slow.”

“Fuck you, Olsen,” he snaps.

“Aw!” I scrunch up my nose. “I don’t think my boyfriend would like that, but I’m flattered, thanks.”

He grunts some derogatory slurs, but while he’s sprouting off, he misses the official dropping the puck.

Chuckling under my breath, I win the face off. Zach gets the puck and passes it to Ethan. He’s already past the blue line, and I follow him into the offensive zone. Montreal is as slow as molasses as they play catch-up.

A quick flick of his wrist, the puck hits my blade, and I wind it back.

Whoosh.

Back of the net, baby.

BUHHHHHH, sounds the horn. Our standard goal song, Nirvana’sLithium,blasts through the arena, and fans are up on their feet going wild.

I fucking love how enthusiastic our fans are.

Raising my hand in celebration, I exchange a high-five with Ethan, then Peyton, Kendrick, and Zach skate over for a group hug before we skate past the bench, trading glove fist bumps.

“Nice! Good job, boys. Keep it up.” Coach says when we sit back on the bench.

I squirt some water in my mouth, then wipe the sweat from my visor with a towel.

My focus is primarily on the game, but every now and again, my mind will drift off to the man who is sitting two rows behind me, watching my game with my parents. Maybe it’s that thought that keeps me so fired up. I’ve been on top of my game recently, playing some of the best hockey of my life, and maybe it’s the standard hockey player superstition, but I’m pretty sure it’s because of Alex.

He’s like my lucky charm.

“Atta boy, Mitchy!” Ethan shouts as Mitch dekes a Montreal d-man whose face is getting redder with every passing second. He passes the puck to Tait, and it’s like watching magic happen. Tait passes it back to Mitch, who one-timers the puck right into the back of the net.

“Fuck yeah!” I holler, banging my stick against the boards.

The rookie’s wearing a shit-eating grin when he skates back to the bench.

I give him a noogie with my glove. “What a shot, bud! That was beautiful.”

He dips his chin in embarrassment, trying to hide his bright pink cheeks, squirts some water in his mouth, and then shoos me away. “Your turn now!”

I hop over the boards for my next shift and line up for face-off, biting my lip to suppress my laughter when Middleton’s sour face appears.

“You know, maybe it’s that lip lettuce you’ve got going on. It’s hindering your game, bud.” I wave my gloved hand in front of my mouth, referring to the handlebar mustache he’s rocking.

He glowers at me, his nostrils flaring like a crazed bull.

I snicker, focusing on the puck. I win again and pass it back to the boys. This time Montreal is a little more awake; they’ve clearly faced a grilling from their coach, but it’s not enough. Even with bodies in front of the net, Zach sinks one between the tendy’s legs, and the thousands of excited fans roar.

By the time we’re back out for third, we’re up six to one. The one goal that slipped past Elliot’s defense was unlucky as it bounced off of his pad.

It’s like Montreal have given up; we sink two more into the net—one being a power play goal after one of their defensemen cross-checked Zach, and another was an empty net goal scored by …

Elliot!

The horn sounds, and we’ve won eight to one. I skate up to Elliot, dropping everything on the ice, and he’s jumping into my arms, trying to wrap his padded legs around my waist.

“I fucking scored a goal!” He screams, and when I catch a look at his face through his cage, his eyes are filled with tears.

“It was fucking amazing!” My voice croaks with emotion.

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