Page 97 of The Fake Husband Play
I meet his gaze, feeling sorry for the poor bastard. I don’t know what I would have done if Elly had kissed and ditched me. Probably moped around looking as sorry for myself as Parker has for the past week.
Unfortunately, I don’t have good news to share. “You sure you don’t want to wait until after the game?”
He shakes his head and sniffs dramatically. “Nope. Give it to me now, and I’ll let my despair fuel me.”
Not knowing whether to laugh or sympathize—sometimes, with Parker, it can be hard to tell when he’s joking—I say, “Elly told the ‘thing’ that it was cool for you guys to do the ‘thing,’ but that didn’t seem to makea difference. I think the thing’s mind is made up that she’s better off alone right now.”
He curses as he turns to gaze across the locker room, disappointment clear on his face. “Well, at least we’ll always have Paris.”
“And by Paris, you mean The Brass Monkey and a Slim Jim,” I say, hoping gentle teasing will cheer him up.
He nods seriously. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“I love that bar,” Blue rumbles in his deep-as-the-ocean voice, surprising us both. He doesn’t seem like an animal-themed dive bar in Metairie kind of guy.
“Really?” Parker asks. “What’s your cocktail? You can tell a lot about a man by which cocktail he chooses at The Brass Monkey.”
Before Blue can answer, Coach Merwood is climbing up on a chair at the front of the room, the better to look each of us in the eye as he gives his “going into battle” speech. The man gets more like a dwarven warlord from a fantasy film with every passing day. The pre-game pep talks are downright poetic at this point, and Nix swears he saw twigs in Coach’s beard the other day.
Tonight, the speech focuses on turning shit around after our first loss last Tuesday, inspiring a standing ovation by the end.
The Voodoo doesn’t just want a winning season; we want the winningest season an expansion team has ever had, and we intend to bring the cup to Louisiana for the first time in history or die trying.
First period, I’m locked in. The ice feels clean beneath my blades, sharp and right. The puck drops, and my body knows exactly where to be—two strides left, pivot, find the soft ice between their defensemen.
The game flows through me like music I’ve been playing my whole life.
Three minutes in, I steal the puck at our blue line. Their winger’s reaching, off-balance, and I slip it through his feet. The ice opens up, and I feel Parker on my right without looking. Their defenseman commits too early, too eager, and I sauce it over his stick. Parker doesn’t even have to slow down.
Ten seconds later, the goal light bathes us in red.
We celebrate with the Voodoo’s signature victory cry, shouting “Bon Temps!” as Parker jumps into my arms. I spin him once before setting him down, both of us laughing.
Afterward, I point up at the Jumbotron camera, knowing my girls are watching back home, celebrating along with us.
The period stays clean and fast. With five minutes left, I catch their defense changing. It’s just a half-second of confusion in an otherwise solid game from Carolina, but I use it to curl through the neutral zone, building speed. Their left defenseman backs up too far, the space between him and his partner just enough for me to slip through.
I thread it, accelerating into the gap. Their goalie pops out to get in my way, but I’ve got too much momentum. Quick deke, forehand—and as he drops, I pull it backhand and lift it over his shoulder. The horn sounds, and this time I let myself feel it—the crowd’s roar, the ice spray, the weight of my teammates piling on.
2-0 after one.
Coach lifts a quiet fist of war lord victory into the airas we file past. “That’s the way to bring the turning the tide, boys. That’s the way.”
Second period starts with the same energy.
We’re rolling, everything clicking.
Then five minutes in, I’m battling in the corner with Patridge, their second-line forward, a big guy, but usually a clean player. There’s nothing special about the battle, just two players working for position.
I’m about to snag the puck when he grunts too softly for the refs to hear, “How’s life with your stalker, buddy? Elly’s podcast is a hit in our locker room, that’s for sure.”
What the fuck is he talking about?
The puck slips off my stick, but thankfully, Nix is already swooping in beside us, turning play back toward the Carolina net.
I glare at Partridge as he surges forward beside me.
“Love the parts about you,” he adds with a smirk. “Sexy shit. She’s got a nice voice, too. Real smooth.”
