Page 83 of Chips & Checks
Bowen benches beside me, chest heaving. I hand him a Gatorade, fingers brushing his damp glove. “Edge work looks good,” I say under the crowd noise.
“Vision looks better,” he fires back, eyes flicking to my nurse-white sneakers. My cheeks heat. He’s gone again before I can answer.
Hartford draws first blood on a greasy redirect through traffic. My brother smacks the glass in disgust. I flip to the injury column, ready for the psyche hit. Bowen returns, tosses his helmet, and squeezes past me for a new stick.
His expression is ice. “Plenty of clock,” he mutters.
We equalize late on a Cam deflection. The bench erupts, and towels whirl. First intermission arrives like the snap of fingers. I trail the pack down the corridor, listening for slumps in gait, checking for limps. No one’s hurt badly, just the usual constellation of bruises.
In the locker room, Coach Metcalfe paints X’s and O’s while I re-tape a gash on Tristan’s wrist and sneak glances at Bowenacross the stalls. He’s stone-still, staring at the whiteboard, yet I know he’s aware of me threading gauze because his shoulders drop a fraction when I finish.
The next period starts fast and mean. Whatever fire Coach lit during intermission caught because both teams are scrapping like something’s personal. I’m still thinking about the way Bowen’s gaze locked on the whiteboard, how he didn’t look at me but felt me anyway. Like always. But there’s no time to dwell. The door slams open, the buzzer sounds, and we’re back on the bench, hearts pounding, blades carving into ice.
O’Rourke spears Bowen after a whistle. It’s a dirty hit to his inside thigh. My breath knots. Two minutes on the board for Hartford, but Bowen winces during his slow glide to the bench. I’m there before he parks.
“Show me.” I press my gloved fingers along the inner leg pad. No collapse. “Stinger?”
“Bruise,” he grunts. “Good bruise. I’m fine.” He’s already levering up, skating toward the dot for the power play.
During the next net-front battle, Chad cranks a clapper that dings the bar. The puck drops to Bowen. He gloves, slides, and buries. The goal light bathes the rink red. He skates to the glass, cups a hand to his ear at the booing crowd, and I can’t stop the grin stretching my face mask.
Hartford evens it on a deflection, and the bench energy sags like wet cardboard. Coach Metcalfe paces, barking. I uncap water bottles, passing them down. Bowen keeps skating past the gate during stoppages, shoulders tight, jaw ticking. He’s thinking too much.
During the TV timeout, I lean over the boards. “Murphy!” He turns, brows up. I mime breathing—slow inhale, slow exhale. His chest expands obediently; he nods once and orders his lungs to behave.
For the next period, I try to regulate my breathing. The sheet’s scarred to hell. I jot hydration numbers, but my eyes stay on #19. First shift, he dumps and crushes their D into tempered glass right where I’m standing. The thunk vibrates my kneecaps. The puck squirts loose and ends up dead behind the net. Chad bangs his stick, demanding it, but Bowen banks it shoot-pad style. Chaos ensues at the near miss.
Halfway through, O’Rourke seeks retribution, and lines Bowen up center ice. At the last second, Bowen dips a shoulder, and O’Rourke ricochets off like a SuperBall. The arena gasps. I fist pump, notebook be damned.
Next rush, Bowen and Cam barrel in two-on-one. The defender sprawls. Bowen toe-drags and tucks the backhand shelf so pretty I forget to breathe.3-2 Venom. He slams the glass while I’m on my tiptoes behind the bench, his grin matching the scoreboard glare. Our eyes meet—one heartbeat—and for that heartbeat I’m not a doctor of physiology, not the daughter of Briggs Sawyer, not even a new girlfriend. I’m just Violet, the person who saw him score. And he likes that I saw.
Chad cruises by complaining about a missed backdoor pass. I pretend my pen slips so I can jab his shin. It doesn’t even come close to hurting him, but it makes me feel better.
For the last two minutes, Hartford yanks their goalie. My stomach’s a mason jar of hornets as shots ping off shin pads and the crossbar. Bowen blocks a point bomb dead-center chest. He grunts but clears the rebound, and the puck drifts toward neutral.
The empty net looms large. Cam chases and taps it home, giving us a4-2 win.
At the final buzzer, the bench erupts as helmets are tossed, and gloves rain down. I fend off flying elbow pads, find ice packs, and pass them out like party favors. Bowen skates straight to our goalie, taps Owen’s lid, then wheels back to thebench. Reporters swarm the gate, wanting their piece of the players with points tonight. So I’m half-shield, half-bouncer, as they all shuffle back to the locker room.
I collect broken sticks for the equipment guys, ears tuned. I catch O’Rourke promising violence next meeting, Chad’s crowing that the game-winner was really his screen, and I eye roll so hard at that bullshit I pull a muscle.
The locker room becomes a frat house with beer showers and thumping music. Viktor howls lyrics off-key. I make the rounds, icing bruises, checking stitches, and giving stern reminders about hydration. Chad refuses a post-game flush skate. Fine; let lactic acid eat him alive.
Bowen corners me near the stick rack once the chaos ebbs. He leans close enough that steam from his hair curls against my cheek. “You okay? Need anything?”
I consider lying—saying I need nothing—but honesty slips out. “Ice and junk food. And maybe quiet later.”
The smile he tries to hide softens every hard edge on his face. “Later, kitten.”
I pretend my knees don’t liquefy at the nickname that I now have—yet another violation of the former rules—and hustle to pack med supplies. The bus leaves in forty-five, so the boys parade toward showers while I switch laundry bins and log injuries. Only bruises tonight. Miraculous.
It takes a while to get everything in order, but soon it’s time to head back to the hotel. On the way to the corridor, I glance back. Bowen’s in the doorway, tie hanging loose, phone in hand, eyes on me. Protecting, always. I nod toward the bus; he nods back, making a silent pact.
Outside, the Connecticut night air knives through my Venom jacket. I climb into the bus, stash my med kit overhead, and claim my usual seat behind the driver. The engine rumbles to life. Through the tinted glass, I watch the arena sign shrink,neon blue bleeding into black. Victory hums, but a bit of dread shadows it. Chad’s ego hasn’t shrunk, and the pending internal investigation still hangs over all of us.
We roll onto the interstate toward the hotel, taillights strobing the ceiling. The boys debate pizza toppings, and somewhere mid-bus, Bowen laughs low at Cam’s joke. I close my eyes and let the sound wrap around me, a brief lullaby before the next storm. Because tomorrow, the headlines won’t show the ice burns I treated or the way my heart jumped when Bowen blocked that shot.
But I’ll remember.
