Page 54 of Whirlwind
Isla’s the same way. She’s lived and breathed hockey for so long that her eye is unmatched. I’ve always been able to count on her for an honest opinion—about my skating, my shooting,my chemistry with the team. She always had an answer worth hearing.
She and her husband make a good pair. Sadie’s a lucky girl.
The second period is much like the first. We score again when Fane nails the five-hole beautifully. Still, Calgary hasn’t put a point on the board.
When the third starts, they come out with renewed energy. In hockey, when you’re down, you pick fights—either out of frustration or to get the crowd riled up. It’s a common enough tactic, and fights can rally your team. So I’m not surprised they’re chippy right from the puck drop.
Their defenseman, Preston, takes every chance he gets to check me. It’s annoying, but we’re winning, and it’s not worth giving them penalty points just to hit back—a sentiment the coaches drill into us between every shift.
“Learn to skate, fucker. Then you won’t need to lean on me to stay up,” I tell him, shoving him off. He skates away after the puck, but as soon as he gets another chance, he’s right back on me.
The back-and-forth lasts most of the period. If we’re both on the ice, he’s pestering me—or anyone else he can. Mostly me, though.
When Fane swats the puck away from Calgary’s winger and sends it toward Letty, Preston hops over the boards for a shift. He barrels straight toward me just as Letty passes me the puck.
I shoot at the same moment Preston slams into me, my hip bouncing hard off the boards.
I score—and I couldn’t care less—because I’m already driving my elbow into Preston’s chest. Then, all hell breaks loose. Both benches pile in, fists flying, gloves dropping, and the shit talk that’s been building all game turning into open warfare.
It’s fucking glorious.
Not all players enjoy fighting. I’m not one of them. I don’t seek it out, but I’m happy to take the opportunity to put someone in their place—and Preston has been begging for it all damn game. There’s a sick kind of satisfaction when my fist connects with his jaw.
Hockey rules are weird. We leave it on the ice. Tomorrow, Preston and I could grab a beer and be best buddies. But not now. Now, we get it all out of our systems.
Well, notall, in my case. If I unloaded every ounce of frustration, Preston would be nothing more than a bloody pile. My anger over what Kit went through can’t be burned off in the arena. Maybe it never will be. I’ll have to live with that—because if Kit has to carry it, she shouldn’t have to carry it alone.
When the scuffle finally breaks apart—thanks mostly to the brave linesmen—I hobble off to have the trainers check my hip. The sting grows as the adrenaline fades. With only a minute and a half left in the game, I’d be spending the rest of it in the sin bin anyway.
13
Kit
“Porcupines.”
“Ooh, that’s a good one,” I tell Sadie, who is sprawled on my lap, barely awake, but not ready to stop playing our game of quiz. “They’re really good swimmers and can live up to twenty years.”
“They look like they’d sink.”
“I know, but I guess they don’t.”
“Um, slugs.”
“They have four noses.”
“That’s gross,” she says with a giggle.
“What about a slug isn’t gross?”
“Nothing,” she says, scrunching up her nose. “I think I’m getting a puppy for my birthday. But don’t tell my dad I know.”
“Okay, the secret is safe with me,” I say conspiratorially, as I look up to see Willa, who seems shocked her niece already knows about the apparent surprise.
“I hope it’s as cute as Nightmare,” she says.
She spent the entire first intermission looking through my pictures of him.
“I’m sure it will be equally as cute.”
