Page 117 of In It to Win It

I like her a lot.

I catch Abs looking at me and realize I’m smiling like an idiot. He knows better than to say anything to me, though, because interrupting a player’s routine is a total dick move. We like to trash-talk and play pranks and joke around, but a guy’s game-day routine is sacrosanct.

I go through my own warm-up that I learned last summer from Bernard. It hits every body part, starting with ankle hops and marching, ending with side shuffles and high-knee running.

In the dressing room, the mood is light, music pumping out “Wow” by Post Malone. I have a routine for how I get dressed too, like most players. I always put my jersey on last.

Uncle Mark comes in for a few last-minute reminders. “Their goalie’s playing well,” he says. “We gotta get pucks on him. Get traffic in front of him.” He tells us who’s starting and we all clap.

I hit the ice at a run and it feels great, the ice smooth, my blades sharp. I love that feeling. I take a spin, then head to the bench since I’m not starting and pull off my helmet for the national anthem.

The game is intense. We get off to a flying start, moving our legs, keeping our game north-south. Martinez lays a few hits on me, most of which I manage to absorb or evade. I’m good at that. The first couple weren’t an issue—I had the puck along the boards, so of course he was going to hit me. Then he comes after me after I pass the puck to Dutch, driving me into the boards from behind, snapping my neck back. I didn’t even know it was him at first. It was dirty and right on the numbers and he should be going off, but no whistle sounds, and I can’t fucking believe it as I haul myself up off the ice to catch up to the play. Jesus Christ.

Now I’m pissed.

Luckily I’m not hurt, but I’m pissed.

On the bench I vent to Frenchy (Louis Ouellet). “What thefuckwas that? I can’t believe that didn’t get called.”

“I know.” Frenchy shakes his head. “Asshole.”

Benny, our head trainer, claps a hand on my shoulder behind me. “You okay, Japester?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my head around. My neck might be sore later, but I’m okay.

Both goalies are going to be stars of this game, because both teams are fighting hard. They’re standing on their goddamn heads, though, blocking shot after shot, and it’s the third period before we finally manage to put one past their netminder.

We celly like we’d just won the Cup, jumping on each other and pounding one another’s backs. Thank fuck.

We’re up by one with about six minutes left in the game. One goal’s not good enough. Still lots of time for them to tie it up. We’re changing on the fly, and I leap over the boards and chase the puck deep in the Nashville end where Copper dumped it before heading off. Their defense is on it, though, and I’m slammed into the boards. By Martinez. Again.

Dutch takes the puck and passes it to Bergie.

“Fuck!” I yell at Martinez. “Hit me like that again and I’ll drop you, motherfucker.”

Bergie passes cross ice to Johnny, then to me. I don’t have a lane, so I pass it back to Bergie on the blue line. He takes a one-timer. The goalie makes the save and smothers the puck. The whistle blows.

Martinez skates up to me and circles me. “Frustrated, man? Not getting enough of that sweet pussy?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I growl, turning to face him. I glide closer to him, my blood heating.

“Taylor. Just remember . . . I was there first.” He smirks. “She likes to share that sweet pussy. So tight and?—”

He doesn’t get out the rest of what he was saying because I’ve dropped my gloves and punched him. He drops to the ice immediately, blood running down his face. I’m on him, but he’s not even fighting back, and that pisses me off even more. I’ve been fucking played.

The linesmen are there right away, pulling me off. A bunch of Preds arrive and surround us menacingly, quickly followed by my teammates. My chest is heaving, adrenaline slamming through my veins. “You’re the fucking pussy,” I spit out at Martinez, then hate myself for using that sexist slur. “You fucking douchebag prick!” I can’t even think of insults bad enough for him. For what he just said.

“Enough,” the linesman holding me back says. “You’re out of the game.”

“What the fuck?” I glare at him. “He said—” I stop dead. There’s no way in hell I want to repeat what he just said with cameras on us and possibly microphones picking it up.

I am so fucked.

“Last five minutes of regulation time,” the ref barks. “You’re out.” He drags me across the ice.

Meanwhile, Martinez is getting attention for the blood dripping down his face. He didn’t even drop his gloves! Rage billows inside me, hot pressure that makes me yank myself out of the linesman’s grip and try to go at Martinez again. This time my own teammates rush at me to grab me and hold me back.

“Jesus, man, calm the fuck down,” Dutch says in my ear. “What the hell?”

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