Page 46 of Man Advantage

“Fair enough,” I said.

I was a little surprised neither of them had mentioned Tim. They seemed to like him well enough. I left that subject alone, though.

Besides, the game was starting.

A couple of minutes in, someone broke off for a line change, and Zach pointed as he exclaimed, “Dad’s coming out!”

I craned my neck, and sure enough, Trev had just gone over the boards. I shivered, and not from the coolness of the arena. Fuck, but I loved watching him in his element. Practice was fine and good. Playing at this level? When it actually counted and everyone was at full-speed? So hot.

He’d barely been out for a few seconds before he was engaged in a board battle behind Boston’s goal. There was some fierce jostling and digging for the puck, and finally, Trev got it free. He sent it flying around the boards to where Bell was waiting, completely forgotten and unprotected by Boston.

The rookie immediately fired on goal. The sharppingoff the goalpost was audible even from up here, prompting an “oooh” from the crowd. So close!

Hoes caught the rebound and shot it… right into the netminder’s glove.

The whistle blew, and everyone set up for an offensive zone faceoff. My heart was pounding from the short but intense play; Ilovedthis.

Trev’s shift ended. The fourth line came out, and they kept the action in the offensive zone. They didn’t make much effort to score—Trev had told me once that the bottom six forwards were often tasked with tiring out the opposing players. They kept the players moving constantly, and never gave them any opportunities for line changes.

It worked, too. After a solid minute, the other team was utterly gassed. One got the puck and tried to pass it to another, but they were both so tired, it didn’t work. The puck didn’t go straight to the player it was intended to reach, and the recipient couldn’t get to it in time. It sailed down the ice, and the refs blew the whistle.

The “goddammit” was palpable from the exhausted men on the ice. Since they’d iced the puck, none of them could go to the bench for a line change.

Pittsburgh’s players, however, happily skated to the bench and let some fresh bodies come out.

Seconds after the faceoff, Pittsburgh’s captain, Martin, scored the team’s first goal of the season.

The crowd went wild, flying to our feet and screaming as the guys exchanged high fives and the fatigued Boston players finally managed to leave the ice.

The action continued. Trev checked someone into the boards hard enough to make the glass flex, and the boys cheered. Amoment later, he was on another player, trying to get the puck away when?—

A whistle.

Play stopped, and even from this far away, I knew from Trev’s body language that he’d been called. He shouted something at the ref and waved his arm. The ref shook his head and gestured toward the penalty box.

“Ooh,” Zane said in the earnest voice of a six-year-old seeing someone getting in trouble. “Dad’s getting a penalty.”

“Stupid refs,” Zach muttered.

I chuckled. “You don’t even know what the penalty is for yet.”

Zach shrugged dismissively. “Still stupid.”

Trev apparently agreed, because he shouted all the way to the box while the ref skated out to announce the penalty.

Ignoring Trev’s protests, the ref blandly said, “Pittsburgh number forty-seven. Two-minute minor. Slashing.”

The crowd booed furiously.

On the big screen, there was a slow-motion replay. Trev skated up alongside the other player, and he used his stick to try to get the guy’s stick off the puck. If I squinted hard enough, I guess I could see him graze the glove.

I rolled my eyes. Zach might’ve been incensed about any call against his dad, but I had to agree with him on this one. Itwasstupid.

The camera switched to Trev, who was not happy. He flailed his hand and shouted at the ref, and I hoped the boys weren’t as adept at lip-reading as I was. Or if they were, they didn’t quite understand what he meant by“That’s fucking bullshit and you know it. Jesus fucking Christ.”

I smothered a laugh and stole a glance at the twins. They were the sons of a hockey player—they’d be fluent in all the conjugations of the word “fuck” before they got to second grade.God knew their father had been an expert by the time I’d met him in third.

The Rebels’ penalty kill took to the ice, but Boston’s power play unit made mincemeat of them. Less than thirty seconds into the power play, they’d scored.

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