Page 50 of The Import Slot
“You know it was Bettsy, right?” I say to Danny, but he’s not listening now. He’s glaring over to the stands at Becca, who has just arrived by the looks of it.
By the time we’re leaving the ice after warm-ups, Nathan has fucked off. But when I get back to the dressing room and check my phone, Jen has sent me a message saying she needs to leave straight after the game. I bet that douche has said something to her.
Time is precious, so I call her, but she doesn’t pick up, so I do what any other player would do when he wants to talk to a girl sitting in the stands; I head out of the dressing room and find Vicky.
I spot her immediately and double-time to where she’s standing. “Hey, would you ask Jen to come down, please?” I say, “I need to talk to her real quick.”
Vicky checks her watch and rolls her eyes at me before heading out of the tunnel. Jen sits just behind the benches, so if she’s at her seat, Vicky should be able to get her attention.
Seconds later, Vicky beckons me over to her.
“She’s on her way but make it quick.”
There are a lot of people around, and after a few minutes, I finally spot her talking to Hal, the security guard. He lets her through, and she arrives looking flushed.
“What’s going on? Are you okay?” she asks. I don’t reply straight away. Instead, I lean down and kiss her gently on the lips. Her eyes closed when I pull away.
“Just wanted to see you. What’s going on? Why do you have to leave as soon as we finish the game?” I ask.
“I need to get my train,” she says, but she’s not looking at me. I pull my glove off and put it under my arm before reaching for her chin, bringing her eyes to mine.
“Bullshit. I know what time the last train is. You have time, and we’re supposed to be celebrating.” We didn’t have a lot of time, but it was enough to see me. She looks sheepish, so I step closer.
“I’ll take you home, or you can stay with me. Has this got something to do with Nathan?” I ask, but before she can answer, Johnny is tapping me on the shoulder, the other guys standing behind him in a line, ready to go.
“We’re up, man,” he says. I give him a nod before turning back to Jen.
“Please, wait for me,” I say, and thankfully she nods before heading back toward Hal.
“What was that about?” Johnny says, leaning on his stick.
“I don’t actually know,” I say.
“Are you and Jen a thing, or—?” Johnny asks, drawing out the last syllable.
“Again, I don’t know.”
Johnny leaves it there, thank God, and we do our usual routine of shoulder bumping, fist bumping, and hip bumping. All that crap we do to gear ourselves up before we break into a jog and hop onto the ice.
I take my place, lined up with the other guys for the anthem before skating back to the bench. My line isn’t starting tonight, but as soon as Hutch swings a leg over the boards after his shift, I hop on, followed by Scottsy.
Johnny and Bettsy swap with the defensive pairing on the ice as soon as the puck sails to Jani, who takes it over the blue line into the O-zone; Scottsy and I are in position, trailing behind. Jani sails the puck over to me, and I send it back to the point where Johnny receives it, flinging it to Bettsy, who one-times it. It hits the blocker side of the tendy and bounces back with a wobble toward Scott, who redirects it to me. As soon as the puck hits my blade, I wrist it toward the gap of the five-hole and the red lamp glows.
I bring my left knee up as I skate around the back of the net. Scottsy, Johnny, Bettsy, and Jani all huddle behind me, my helmet heavy with hands. It doesn’t matter how many goals you score, it never gets old, and the crowd here may be a lot smaller, but they make a lot of noise.
“Yes, Prez. That’s what I’m talking about,” Johnny screams over the noise.
There’s music blasting, drums pounding, and I’m pretty sure I can make out a scream that sounds very Jenna.
We circle back to the bench and bump fists with the other guys before changing lines. We shuffle up the bench, and I grab a towel to wipe my face down, popping my mouthguard out and giving it a hearty chew.
As soon as I spot Hutch hustling back toward the bench, I’m off again, grabbing the puck and flicking it over to the right winger. Scottsy swaps with him as soon as it’s passed back to Jani, but it’s poked away by an opposing forward.
I make chase, and I spot Johnny spin backwards so he can skate backwards, his stick down to intercept. It’s set up until that fucker Matt Rodgers flies in from nowhere and checks Johnny. A fucking interference call if you ask me, and the crowd agrees, but the play continues. Johnny’s stick splits in two, the blade sailing through the air, almost in slow motion. Rodgers has the puck now, so I toss my twig to Johnny and make do without, giving Rodgers a few nudges with my shoulder. Johnny diverts his pass but ices the puck.
We change lines, and Johnny pushes up beside me on the bench.
“What the fuck is his problem?” he asks. “Every time I’ve been on the ice at the same time as him, he goes for me.”
