Page 15 of Slap Shot Daddies

The bird swoops down with the precision of a kamikaze pilot. In the blink of an eye, it attaches itself to Reggie’s shoulder pads, its claws digging into the fabric with surprising tenacity.

Flap! Flap! Flap!

The sound of its powerful wings reverberates through the rink, each beat creating a gust that ruffles our jerseys.

Reggie lets out a strangled yelp, his body going rigid as the macaw batters him with its wings, the feathers a blur of color and chaos. Its talons cling tightly, refusing to release their grip.

“Get it off! Get it off!” he bellows, desperation in his voice as he attempts to skate away from the unexpected hitchhiker that remains stubbornly attached.

But the macaw has no intention of leaving. It digs in deeper, its flapping growing more vigorous, as though its trying to establish its authority over the situation.

The rest of us stand frozen, caught between disbelief and amusement, unsure whether to help or laugh.

Tyler, doubled over against the boards with laughter, struggles to catch his breath, gasping between fits of mirth.

“Reggie, dude,” Braden wheezes, barely able to speak through his chuckles, “I think it likes you.”

Reggie spins in frantic circles, desperately attempting to dodge the bird’s sharp beak as it snaps at the air around him.

The macaw lets out an ear-piercing screech, a sound that echoes off the rink walls and mingles with Reggie’s own screams, equally as loud and filled with panic.

Just when it seems like Reggie might be about two seconds from losing his mind, Kenzie bursts onto the ice her hair tumbling free from its usual bun and trailing behind.

She zooms toward Reggie and the feathery menace perched atop him.

“Hold still!” she commands, her voice firm and her hands reaching out with a mix of caution and determination.

But Reggie’s nerves are frayed, and he does not hold still. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” he screeches, his voice echoing through the rink.

The vibrant macaw flaps its wings even harder, a flurry of feathers and chaos. Kenzie mutters a string of colorful curses under her breath, her frustration palpable.

With a decisive lunge, she grabs onto the bird’s claws, trying to pry it off Reggie’s padded shoulders.

And then, the bird retaliates. It bites her with a swift, unexpected ferocity.

Kenzie yelps, her breath hitching as the macaw clamps down on her fingers with surprising strength. Instantly, blood beadson her skin, glistening like rubies before dripping onto the ice, each droplet a stark contrast against the frozen surface.

The handlers, finally snapping into action, rush over with urgency, their voices a chorus of apologies as they secure the bird back onto the trainer’s glove, its vibrant plumage ruffled and its eyes still glinting with mischief.

Kenzie looks down at her bleeding hand, a weary sigh escaping her lips. “I need a damn drink,” she declares, her voice tinged with exasperation and a hint of humor.

Braden, still chuckling at the spectacle, claps her on the back with a friendly thud. “I think you’ve earned one,” he agrees, his laughter echoing warmly through the chilled air. “Are you all right though? That looks bad.”

Coach finally calls practice to a halt after the macaw debacle, rubbing a weary hand over his face as if trying to erase the memory of the chaos.

The disbelief is etched into his features. “All right, we’re done. Wood, you need the ER?” he asks, concern tinging his voice.

Kenzie, still clutching her bleeding hand, exhales sharply through her nose, a sound full of exasperation. “Yeah,” she admits, her words laced with irritation.

“I’ll need antibiotics and a tetanus shot, maybe stitches. Which means I’ll be sitting in a damn waiting room all night,” she adds, her voice carrying the weight of the impending inconvenience.

Despite the situation, she’s holding it together, there’s no whining, no dramatics. But the sharp edge in her tone reveals her dread of the impending ordeal.

Reggie steps forward, his fingers ruffling the back of his head in a sheepish manner, looking guilty as sin. “I feel awful,lass. Let us take you. Least we can do after my new best friend,”he gestures with a sweeping arm toward the macaw, now safely perched and secured, “tried to eat you alive.”

Before she can voice any objections—though who could object after being called ‘lass’—I swiftly grab a towel from the wooden bench nearby and gently cradle her injured hand in mine, wrapping it snugly.

Her skin is warm beneath my touch, a comforting heat that contrasts with the cool fabric.

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