Page 28 of Pucking Around

Focus.

I track the puck down the ice, relaxed in my stance. This is just an exhibition game. No need to hurt myself saving a rookie’s sloppy shot. The guy with the puck has good footwork, I’ll admit, but he’s too obvious with his hands. He’ll go for my glove side.

High or low?

My glove is already in the air before he shoots. I catch the puck easily. I didn’t even move my feet. The crowd cheers as if I made some great save. I’m making it look effortless because this is taking no effort. He should go back to the minors where he belongs.

The game continues down ice until Novikov takes the puck. I perk up a little. He’s a defender with great offense capability. I don’t hold it against him that he’s Russian. Well, Russo-Canadian.

I track him as he races down the ice in a breakaway. Novikov is unpredictable. I’m curious to see what happens if I put up a real defense. I square off in my stance, my eyes locked on the puck, as I instinctively measure his distance to me. He’s moving fast, cutting left. He’s going to pass the puck across. Inside pass to Fielder. I need to drop. I sink into the butterfly, one push with my right skate, and the puck hits my pad.

Blocked.

Pivot. Double push to guard the other post. They’re skating around for a rebound. Puck is passed to Novikov. Right leg extends as I stretch out. The puck hits my pad again, and I fish it out with my stick and pass to a defender who shoots it down the ice to a waiting winger.

Saved.

But it cost me. I groan, getting up as fast as I can. The push followed by a full extension stretched my groin muscle tight. Pain lances through my right hip. I shouldn’t have done that. Should have just let it in.

The puck is down at the other end of the ice, so I take a moment to stand, bringing my legs together. It was a mistake to dress for this game. I’ll skip the next one. I’ll make any excuse.

The truth I’ve tried ignoring for weeks sinks deep into my chest: the painis getting worse. And damn if the doctor isn’t still watching me. I noticed her in the stands sitting next to Doctor Tyler. Now she’s standing right at the plexiglass in my eye line, arms crossed, mouth set in a firm line.

Coach Tomlin comes up to stand next to her and I watch them shake hands. She finally looks away from me and I realize with a pang of curiosity that I don’t like it. Eric has all her attention now as he makes her laugh. What is he saying to her?

“Saatana,”I curse as I nearly take a puck to the face. It whacks off the crossbar and hits my shoulder before dropping into the net. White scores because I was too busy watching my coach flirt with the pretty doctor to guard my damn goal.

“Head in the game, Mars!” Sully barks at me.

I shake my head. What the hell just happened? Was I bewitched? Nothing breaks my concentration on the ice. Anger bubbles in my chest. I don’t like that I was distracted.

Focus.

The buzzer echoes all around, ending the game, and I relax. Even with that last goal I let in, white still loses 3-6.

Sully skates up, sliding to a stop. “You alright there, big guy?”

“Yeah,” I say through the mask. “Fine.”

He skates off, following the others off the ice.

I snatch up my water bottle and turn. “Voi helvetti,” I mutter, skating over to where Coach Tomlin waits with the doctor.

“Fallin’ asleep out there, eh, Mars?” calls Coach. “You nearly took a facer.”

“Game was over,” I mutter. “Fielder needed the goal more than I needed the save.”

He just chuckles, gesturing to the doctor. “Mars, this is Doctor Rachel Price.”

I let myself look at her openly. She’s standing with her arms crossed tight around her middle. She’s cold. Not used to the rink then. She has dark eyes hidden behind thick, rectangular-framed glasses. Her hair is up, with a few pieces framing her face. She’s beautiful.

And she’s still looking at me. Her gaze roves unashamedly, taking me in from my skates to my helmet. I tower over her in my full kit. We’re like the kitten and the gorilla. Slowly, I take my helmet off, holding her gaze without the cage in the way.

“Doctor Price, this is Mars Kinnunen,” Coach says. “He’s the best damn goalie in the League.”

I hand my helmet over to coach and tuck my stick into my knee pad. Then I tug off my blocker, offering out my right hand. It’s sweaty, but if the new doc has a problem with that, she’s in the wrong business.

She leans over the boards with a smile and takes it. “Really great to meet you, Mars,” she says.

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