Page 7 of The Alternate Captain
Fuck. I’m being catfished.
Shame sets in next, and my skin prickles with heat. Part of me wants to message him and demand to know who the hell he is. Because I deserve to know who I’ve shared intimate details of my life with. I deserve to know who I’ve confided in about my anxiety over my music career. I deserve to know who I’ve been flirting with. And I definitely deserve to know who I’ve talked to about Jeremy.
I blink away the tears as I hold down the icon for the app and tap the little ‘x’ next to it in an attempt to erase it all.
Because I’m too embarrassed to call this stranger out.
I can’t fucking believeit. Now, of all times.
My jaw hits the ice as I watch my second line centre get carted to the box by the stripes.
“How can you say that was a hook?” I ask, tapping my stick on the ice.
“I call what I see. He’s got two minutes,” the ref says, dismissing me with a wave of his hand as he turns away.
I let out a groan. “But it doesn’t make any sense,” I say, trying my luck. “There wasn’t any contact.”
He spins on his skates and faces me. “Fifty-six,” he yells. “Get your ass back to your bench or you can join him.”
Well, shit. A fucking ridiculous call if you ask me—and the crowd, booing in protest. We’re in the last minute of play with a score of 2-to-1 in our favour. I can’t afford for us to be three on five, now of all times.
I skate back to the bench, stepping in through the door that Springy, the assistant coach, holds open for me. He pats my shoulder as I sit down and says something in my ear, which I don’t catch. All my effort is focused on not breaking my twig. My fingers flex against the carbon fiber, but I take a breath as I run myself through five things I can see, four things I can touch—I don’t get much further before I’m drawn back into the game.
We just need to win this face-off and get the puck back to the neutral zone. I know it, the guys know it, and most of all, the fans know it. The entire crowd is on their feet now as the referee sets up for the face-off, and I lean forward to get a better view, resting my elbows on the shelf in front of me.
My own damn heartbeat drowns out the noise from the rink, and as soon as the puck is dropped, I let out a low whistle in relief as Hutch, one of our wingers, receives it.
“Yes, boys,” I yell, shifting my gaze between the jumbotron and the ice.
I want to watch, but I also don’t want to either. As much as I trust the guys, this is fucking terrifying.
40 seconds.
The puck sails toward Jonesy, the second line defenceman who plays left. He passes it back to Hutch, who does a figure of eight in the neutral zone before he saucer-passes it to Danny.
32 seconds.
Danny skates with the puck for a few seconds, narrowly avoiding a poke check from an opposing forward before he backhands the puck back to Jonesy. They pass it between themselves a few times, moving back toward our defensive zone.
25 seconds.
Jonesy trails the puck along to the defensive zone, skating to the back of the net and hovering behind Ffordey, our starting goalie.
20 seconds.
He leaves the puck, and his defensive pair picks it up. They both hastily skate forward, but just after they cross the blue line, Jonesy gets checked, and the puck sails free.
15 seconds.
There’s a scramble for it against the boards on the opposite side of the ice, and I hear Jonesy calling for Hutch to get his stick in.
10 seconds.
I think it’s Hutch who gets the biscuit, but before I can fully comprehend what’s going on, their number twenty-three comes skating out of the huddle, the puck on the end of his stick as he powers towards Ffordey.
5 seconds.
The next thing I know, Ffordey’s dropping to the ice as he dives for the puck, taking care not to let it slip past him as the buzzer sounds.
