Page 166 of Pucking Sweet

By the time I’m dressed back in my teal sheath dress and strappy black heels, the nurse practitioner knocks and steps back in the room. “Here’s that sonogram printout for you.” She hands me a thin strip of photo booth-style images. “Baby is the size of a lentil,” she chimes.

I take the photo strip from her, staring down at the top one that has a little white arrow pointing to my occupied embryonic sac. A lentil. That seems a lot nicer than calling him my chaos monster. “Well, Lentil? Any clever ideas? How the heck are we gonna tell your daddies?”

60

This game is a goddamn fucking gong show. The Leafs defensemen are always hard hitters, taking their cues from veteran grinder, Brett Durand. I’ve played against this guy since the Juniors, and he’s a menace. He’s built like a linebacker, making him slow on his skates, but he hits like a freight train.

Coley and I are paired up this game, and it’s all we can do to keep Durand away from our forwards. I’m pouring sweat, sides heaving between each shift as I wait on the bench.

There’s a Finnish forward playing on the Leafs. The Olympic scouts are here watching him too. Compton informed the whole D-line that we have to stop him from making a goal. Mars wants Mäkinen to prove his worth to the scouts. I can respect that, but damn if it isn’t making me tired. Mäkinen is so fucking fast. And every time I turn around, there’s Durand in my face.

We’re into the first minutes of the second period, Rays are up 2-1, when all fucking hell breaks loose. I’m on the bench with Cole, watching as Compton and J-Lo scrap it out around our net, trying to clear the puck. Mäkinen takes a shot. Mars deflects, sending the puck over to Langers, but he’s just a bit too far ahead of it. Durand lands a nasty hit, sending Langley sprawling down to the ice.

Compton and J-Lo scramble to cover Mars as he skates out past his crease. Our forwards slip out of sync as Sully is knocked off balance. At the same time, J-Lo trips on a stick, falling in slow motion to the side of the goal. It leaves Mars totally unguarded, and he’s too far out.

Mars leaps backward, his body slamming down to the ice as he flattens out, stretching from fingers to toes to block the net. The Leafs forward gives Mars a full face of snow as he skates in toofast, doing a pirouette to avoid a goalie interference penalty. Mars blocks the shot, but it costs him. He’s flat out on the ice like a limp fucking fish.

“Get up,” I shout, one leg already over the boards.

“Come on, Mars!” says Cole at my side.

Durand skates in from the side too fucking fast as Mars is getting up to his knees. He slams into Mars, crashing into the back of the net, knocking the whole damn thing loose. It’s a hard fucking hit, with Mars bent back at the knees, overextending his hips as the full weight of Durand lands on him. His pads are good, but the human body can only bend so far.

“Mars!” Cole shouts again.

I’m seeing fucking red, my rage boiling over. Mars is down, and he’s not getting up. White spots dance at the corner of my vision. Rule number one in hockey?Nevertouch the fucking goalie.

But I’m not out on that ice. I’m stuck watching from the boards as Compton goes barreling in. I can hear his primal shout of rage as he crashes into Durand. Dropping his gloves, Compton tackles him to the ice and starts wailing on him. He’s punching Durand with both fists, pinning him down with his hips as he screams.

“Jake, no!” Doc cries from behind me, her hands on my shoulders as she boosts herself up onto the bench. “Stop it—he’ll kill him!”

“He really is gonna kill him,” says Coley, one gloved hand on my arm to keep me on the boards.

The crowd is on its feet, screaming for more bloodshed as whistles blow and the refs start pulling guys apart. It takes Sully and a lineman to drag Compton off Durand. Even from here, I can see the blood on the ice. The lineman tries to pull Compton over to the box, but he’s still shouting insults back and forth with Durand.

What the fuck? I haveneverseen Compton so violent on the ice.

“God—Jake, stop,” Rachel screams.

Durand says something that makes Compton Hulk-out again. He breaks free of Sully’s hold, and it takes Sully and Langley to pull him back. The ref calls it, booting Compton from the game. They finally get him back over to our bench, and Cole and I hop off the boards, ready to replace him. J-Lo has a hand on him too, dragging him back. Compton only has eyes for Mars. He shouts across the ice, trying to get his attention.

“He’s fine,” J-Lo soothes, pushing him against the boards.

I look myself to see that Mars is back up on his knees. His mask is up and he’s talking to the linesman. He’s okay for now. I glare across the ice toward the penalty box. Durand is dabbing at his bleeding face as Rays fans hammer the glass with their fists behind his head. He better be happy he’s in there for five fucking minutes. Otherwise, he’d be dead.

I skate into position, ready to take advantage of the hole Durand left in his line. The puck is dropped, and I’m throwing elbows left and right, slamming Leafs into the boards wherever I can.

At the shift change, I hop over the side, downing a pair of mustard packets to help with my leg cramps. The sharp, tangy taste hits my tongue, and I groan. It’s fucking disgusting, but players swear by it. I know some guys who drink pickle juice by the jar for the added sodium and electrolytes.

In under two minutes, Coach calls for the shift change, and Cole and I each swing a leg over the boards, waiting for J-Lo and Woody to skate up. Once they hop off, we hop on, skating like a pair of sharks into the fray. The puck is down at the Leafs’ end for a change, so Cole and I are left playing cleanup, keeping the puck in the zone.

Karlsson takes a shot, and the damn puck goes missing. It hasn’t crossed the line, and the goalie doesn’t have possession. It’s a fucking scramble as the forwards get it out from the back corner of the net. Cole and I are pulled in closer, staying in position for a rebound or to catch a stray. My mark is all over me, throwing elbows and grunting like a horse in heat.

“Get the fuck off me,” I growl, giving him a hard check with my shoulder.

But his stick pulls through my legs, tripping me up. I go down hard, hitting both knees before I’m rolling to my side. The puck shoots loose, whizzing pasts me down the ice toward Mars, and everyone skates my way. The Leafs forward tries to avoid tripping as he leaps over me. Only he doesn’t leapoverme so much as he stepsonme.

Blinding fucking pain.

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