Page 209 of Pucking Around

But I can’t think about them right now. I have to focus on my game. There’s a reason the FIHA scouts wanted to come to this game. Toronto has a Finnish player too: Timo Mäkinen. He’s a right winger, and they’re scouting him as well. They want to see how he plays against me. They want to see him score on the Bear.

I like Mäkinen, he’s a good player. But hell will freeze over before I give him a point tonight. I see him now at the other end of the ice. No. 27. He’s fast. Great footwork, good puck handling. Coach Tomlin and I reviewed all his recent footage. He likes to set up his shots. If my defense can make him rush, he’ll get sloppy.

“Compton!” I shout from my spot on the ice, stretched out in a full split. “Compton!”

Jake skates over, sliding to a stop in front of me. “What?” The storm cloud brewing over his head looks ready to unleash havoc.

I roll forward onto the ice, sliding my legs back until I’m up in a kneeling position. “You see No. 27?”

He glances down the ice, eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Mäkinen. He’s Finnish too, right?”

I nod. “He doesn’t score tonight.”

Jake’s dark gaze darts down to me. “You got beef with him?”

“No. But the scouts want him to score on me tonight. You’re not going to let that happen. Rush him into making sloppy shots. Tell the others.”

He nods, still all business.

I get to my feet just as he turns, ready to skate away. “Hey—”

He turns back and I skate up, my blocker going to his shoulder as I step in. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I won’t ask. I only have one question: are you here?”

He looks sharply at me, dark brows narrowed as he scowls. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Are youhere?” I repeat. “Are you on this ice tonight? Because if you’re not, I will go to Coach right now and have you benched.”

He shrugs away from me. “I’m here, Mars. I’m right fucking here.”

Against his will. I see it all over his face. He doesn’t want to be here. He’s angry and he’s scared. Something is definitely wrong.

“Why don’t you play your game and I’ll play mine,” he mutters. “That’s what you’re always telling me, right?”

“Jake—”

The whistle blows. Our time is up. We have to get into position. He skates off and I watch him go.

Taking a deep breath, I push off with my skate, gliding along the ice into the crease. I do my ritual of scuffing the ice, tapping each side of the goal with my stick when I’m done. Then I look down to my left, my gaze locked on that two-inch-thick red line. The goal line. Taking a deep inhale, I let it out, the heat of my breath filling my mask. Nothing is crossing that line tonight.

92

Iskate into my starting position. Left defense. Parallel to me, J-Lo skates to a halt. We meet eyes and nod. He’s dialed in, ready for the puck drop. In front of us, Langley, Sully, and Karlsson are in position too.

I look down the ice to the Toronto defenseman across from me and my blood runs cold. No. 60, Brett Marchand. He’s a big fucker, built like a rugby player—broad shoulders, thick neck. And he hits like a truck.

I’ve played against him twice a year for years. It would have been more if I played for an Atlantic Division team. Thank god the Rays were placed in the Metro Division. After tonight, I won’t have to see this asshole again until the end of the season.

The crowd is going wild, on their feet for the start of the game. The puck drops and it’s like all my senses zap into laser focus.

Do your job.

Fuck, Toronto is a great team. They win control of the puck, and the forwards fly down the ice. J-Lo and I spring into action. I know Mars is behind me, waiting in the crease, a giant among men. To get to him, this center has to get through me.

Hard check. I slam him with my shoulder, working him off the puck. I send it rocketing down the ice towards a waiting Langley. The kid skates off, flying faster than a bullet. He reminds me so much of Caleb, it’s scary.

The crowd boos as Langley tries to make a pass that is intercepted by Marchand. He does his job, passing it forward. He’s the definition of a grinder. He’ll leave the fancy puck handling to the forwards.

The Toronto offense push us hard, bringing the puck back across center line. J-Lo stays forward, and I hold back.

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