Page 19 of Scoring Position

Greenie caught it.

“Better luck next time, Kirschbaum!” Greenie winked and tossed the puck back at him.

Nico swept away from the net and tried to think of anything but that missed shot. He should have known Greenie would be hot on that side, after seeing Chenner’s failed attempt. He frowned at the ice. He might not be superstitious, but he should have known his stupid brain wouldn’t just brush off a break in routine.

As he left the ice for the locker room, as he settled onto the bench, as the game started, he couldn’t help but replay that drill over and over. That missed shot felt like a bad omen.

The fact that they weren’t losing after the first ten minutes of play did nothing to ease Nico’s foreboding. They weren’t playing their best, but neither was Calgary, and somehow they had kept the game scoreless.

As the first period ticked toward the close, the Fuel had only managed three shots on goal, a fact that Vorhees was growling out at them. If Nico shut his eyes, he would see the goaltender easily making the glove save. Another gloveside blunder for Nico tonight.

Why would he have aimed gloveside again?

“Kirschbaum’s line. You’re up!” Vorhees barked.

Nico hopped over the boards. He needed to focus.

He lost the faceoff. Lefty managed to scrounge the puck back and shot up the ice. Nico and Mucker followed, up past the blue line, where an opposing player got into Nico’s face, pushing at him, blocking him. Nico shook him off, skated around him—and fuck, Lefty was running one of their drills. They’d practiced this move dozens of times, but Nico missed the memo—he’d gone the wrong way and wasn’t quite in position. Lefty passed, Mucker two-timed the puck, but no matter how Nico stretched, he couldn’t catch it.

But their opponent did.

Then Nico, Lefty, and Mucker were dashing back up the ice in pursuit. Bitterness choked Nico. He could see the pass, the shot, the goal, almost before they were made. He knew it was going into the net. Shit.

Shoulders slumping, Nico firmed his mouth and skated back to the bench, where he avoided everyone’s eyes. He couldn’t do anything right tonight.

By the end of the second, Nico had given the puck up twice more and gotten tangled up with a defenseman on the ice. They’d stayed in a snarled mess of limbs for ten seconds while the rest of their team had to suddenly play three-on-five.

Vorhees yelled on the bench and in the locker room, but the score kept slipping. 1–0. 2–0. 3–0.

By the start of the third, Nico felt tight enough to snap. His shoulders bunched, his teeth clenched. He wanted to punch something.

Then someone iced the puck, and the line change was slow and sloppy. Which meant Nico was suddenly on the ice with Chenner, who bounced all over the lineup but was rarely on with Nico.

And who had apparently forgotten how to stay on-side, because he had their whole line moving back into the defensive zone for shitty zone entriestwicein the same shift.

By the end of it, Nico was fuming. He snatched up his water bottle as Chenner settled next him, his shoulders drooped and his head shaking.

Ryan knocked their shoulders together.

“What the fuck was that?” Nico snapped. “Didn’t you see me?”

Chenner jerked and stuttered, “Um. Well—”

“Hey,” Wright cut in. He put a gloved hand on Chenner’s head and wiggled as if ruffling imaginary hair. “Don’t listen to Oscar the Grouch over here. Mistakes happen.”

On Wright’s other side, Lefty snorted. “Grouch. Kirschbaum the Grouch.”

No. Nico clenched his fist. No, they weren’t going to—

To his right, Granger bopped Nico gently on the head. “Doc’s got a point, Grouch. Mistakes happen, so unclench and focus on what’s next.”

Grouch.

“Don’t,” he muttered, but they didn’t listen.

By the end of the game, the nickname had spread up and down the bench and even across the ice to the net.

Nico nearly dropped the puck when he heard “Grouch! Grouch! Over here!” from his left. He passed right.

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