Page 58 of Pucking the Grump

I nod. “Will do, Coach. I used to play with Shields in the minors. I’m familiar with his bullshit.”

Coach nods, looking as disgusted as I feel. Lauder is a militant man, but an honorable one, with zero patience for a lack of integrity. “He’s had three suspension-worthy hits in the last seven games he played in the league. He’s a liability out there. Someone’s going to get seriously hurt if he’s not dealt with. He shouldn’t be on the ice.”

“Agreed,” I say. “I’ll keep an eye on him and our people.”

“You always do,” he says. “You’re a good leader, Stone. If you’d been with the team longer, I would have pegged you for captain over Cruise. Thanks for showing the rookies how a grown man conducts himself on and off the ice.”

Coming from Coach Lauder, this is practically a declaration of love. A sonnet, if you will. I’m flabbergasted, but deeply flattered. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot.”

Hopefully, he’ll still think I’m a good one when he realizes I’ve been fucking his daughter like it’s my mission on earth…

As I return to the locker room, the thought of Remy sends me to my phone.

I read her latest text, letting it fill my fighting well—You’ve got this, babe. Sending you all the winning vibes. I’ll be watching from the sports bar across the street from our hotel and cheering loud enough for you to hear me in Portland.

Grinning because my girl is the best girl, I text back—Headed out to the ice now. Love you, Bossy, and see you soon.

Then, I put my cell away, banish my goofy smile, and focus on the utter annihilation of the men of Nebraska.

By the time the buzzer sounds, calling us back to the ice for introductions, I’m in the zone. Completely locked in, heartbeat steady, mind clear. This is what fifteen years of professional hockey has given me—the ability to push everything else aside and focus only on the next sixty minutes of play.

The arena lights dim as we line up along the blue line. The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, introducing each player to thunderous applause. When my name is called, the roar intensifies, a wave of sound that washes over me, familiar and electrifying.

What can I say? I’m adorable and the Portland fans love me.

The feeling is mutual, of course. I can’t imagine a better place to end my career than in this quirky town full of passionate people who dance to the beat of their own drum and never turn their backs on a hometown team.

The national anthem singer delivers a crisp, clear rendition without too much wobbling around at the end—always a plus—and the house lights come back up. Then, the officials take their positions, and we’re moments away from the first puck drop of the season.

Across the face-off circle, I spot Shields eyeing me with his typical dumb-and-angry expression. I meet his gaze evenly, offering a warm smile that I know will get under his skin far more than any glare.

“Don’t know what you have to smile about dumbass,” he mutters.

I exhale a soft, patronizing chuckle, keeping my stance relaxed. “Just glad you’re back, Shields. Heard you were sent down. Again. But look at you now! All grown up and playing with the big boys. Is your mommy proud? I bet she is. I sure am. Good job, buddy.”

His nostrils flare as his face flushes bright red.

Poor Shields.

He really does make it almost too easy.

The ref skates to center ice, puck in hand. The crowd noise peaks, and I focus on the black disc, body coiled and ready.

The puck drops, and just like that, my last season begins.

The first period flies by in a blur of fast breaks and crisp passes. Grammercy and I find an early rhythm, connecting for a beautiful sequence that nearly puts us up 1-0 five minutes in. Their goalie makes a ridiculous save, but it still feels like a win. Our team is a well-oiled machine, and it’s only a matter of time before we grind them to dust beneath our relentless onslaught of excellence.

“Fire, rookie. You’re on fire,” I encourage as we skate back to the bench. “Next one’s going in.”

Grammercy grins, nodding. “Fuck yeah, it is.”

Coach paces behind the bench, barking instructions that blend into the cacophony of crowd noise and skate blades slicing through ice. We take the lead halfway through the first on a power play goal from Justin, assisted by Nowicki after a beautiful zone entry.

But being up 1-0 makes Nebraska more aggressive. Shields leads the charge, throwing elbows and shoulders like the Kool-Aid man trying to burst through a wall.

Second period starts with Nebraska pushing hard. They’re determined to tie things up, throwing everything they have at first Shane, then Tank, who stands like a brick wall between the pipes. Shot after shot is deflected away, but the corn-fed motherfuckers actually seem to be building momentum.

Meanwhile, Shields gets more stupidly aggressive with every shift. During a scramble in front of our net, he crosschecks Grammercy from behind, sending him face-first into the post.

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