Page 51 of Zero Pucks

“I’ll happily write you a letter of recommendation if you need one,” Hugo had said.

Boden had given him a death stare. “You don’t even know him. Maybe try minding your business.” He went off on a long string of French Canadian insults that I vaguely recognized from whenever he was pissed off.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—Hugo was French and very clearly understood most of them. He looked hurt and a little surprised, walking away without another word.

I was fairly sure Boden was being too hard on him, and I was also fairly sure that Jonah was right—we probably needed to give the guy a chance.

But just like the Legends went out of their way to make sure ninety percent of their team staff was on the blind spectrum, we also had rules like that. And Hugo was the first person who had come along as an exception.

“Alright, team!” Hugo called out. He wasn’t in a suit—we were a freaking beer league and barely had matching uniforms, so a suit would have been weird—but he was dressed nicely in a long-sleeve polo and pressed jeans.

Boden muttered something under his breath, and I knocked my elbow into him. “Just breathe and get through the game. We’ll deal with him later.”

The look on his face told me he wasn’t going to make tonight easy, but he said nothing as he spun his body and stared hard at Hugo. The new coach pinked under his attention, but he turned his gaze to the rest of the team.

“Tonight should be an easy win. You’ve been amazing in practice all week, and if we use those new plays, I’m confident we can score early and get enough of a lead that they’ll struggle to overtake us in the third period when we’re at our most exhausted.”

Boden folded his arms over his chest. Now was when he usually had his captain’s speech prepared, and Hugo knew this because he looked at him expectantly. But Boden remained quiet.

After too long, Ford cleared his throat and puffed out his chest like he needed to remind everyone about the A on his breast. “He’s right. I think we need to start hard and heavy with A1.” Hugo had given the new plays names that weren’t in line with what we usually used, but they were easy to remember. “That’s you,” he said, looking at Boden.

His jaw twitched, and he grunted but said nothing.

“Get your head in the game,” I muttered as Ford went on to psych everyone up. “You can be pissed at him later.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing. This is going to cost us,” Boden hissed.

He was wrong. We’d already proven that in practice. But he had on the face he wore when it was a bad idea to argue with him, so I didn’t.

* * *

Boden was right—I just didn’t realize it until the second period. We started off strong. Ford got the puck and scored within the first three minutes. The Lions were fierce, but we were better.

We weren’t going for anything other than a win. It was the only real relaxing thing about being on this team—it wasn’t going to make or break me. I wasn’t trying to get another invite to the Paralympics the way Boden was.

I wasn’t trying to get my name or face out there. That dream had died in twisted metal and a medically induced coma.

So it was easy to ignore the frantic way Boden was screaming at everyone and slide right up to the wall, where I finally managed to spot Amedeo. This close, I could see Jonah leaning in toward him, murmuring something with a smile.

But it was obvious Amedeo wasn’t listening anymore. I couldn’t hear him through the thick plexiglass, obviously, but I swore his lips said, ‘He’s right here.’

And then he hopped up and pressed his hands to the glass and smiled at me.

My heart skipped half a dozen beats, and I felt my cheeks heat.

“Fucker! Get your ass back in the game!” That was Ford, so I ignored him as I lifted the end of my right stick and tapped it over Amedeo’s palm. I winked for good measure—my blind eye so I didn’t have to lose sight of him for the few seconds I had.

Then I was jostled to the side, tipping to the right, and looked over to see Ford glaring at me. “Dickhead,” Ford said, “Boden’s sabotaging us.”

I blinked. He was what? I spun my sled, and Ford caught me by the arm, hauling me close enough that his bucket bashed into mine. He pointed with the picked end of his stick.

Boden was across the ice, staring at Hugo with fire in his eyes. He was plotting something. We’d agreed to sabotage Hugo, though I was now thinking about recanting my earlier vow because the man was actually a good coach.

Boden said he’d had no experience with hockey, but that much was a lie. He knew plays that were only playable in a sled. He understood the mechanics and how to work us as a team to get us close to the goal every time.

But Boden was refusing to relent.

“He deliberately let Marser get the puck off him,” Ford said.

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