Page 164 of Branded
But…fuck, I needed more time to come to terms with whatever the fuck was going on in my head.
Not that I was going to let Smitty know he had me over a barrel.
Not that I was going to give Smitty a chance to reveal what he’d seen over pancakes or in that parking lot.
I opened my mouth?—
“Game time, bitches!” Theo yelled, poking his head in the door.
Always first on the ice, that one.
The guys began hopping up, moving to the door, creating the usual pregame chaos and noise, thankfully cutting Smitty off before I could demand an answer to that ominous question or say anything further.
Saved by Theo.
Yeah, I was going to buy my bud a beer the next time we were out.
Grinning, I picked up the stick I always used at the beginning of the first period, stood, and rolled my shoulders, making certain all my equipment felt right. Then I took advantage of everyone heading out, the distraction of the game starting to avoid Smitty, move into the hall, and line up with the other guys. We all did the usual manly B.S., smacking each other with our sticks, punching each other in the shoulders, unleashing plenty of pointless shit-talk.
Getting ready to fucking go.
Like I said, the usual.
Eventually, we got the high sign and started hustling down the hallway and onto the ice, emerging through the smoke and flashing lights, skating a couple of laps, getting that final bit of warm-up beneath us as the game song played loudly and the crowd screamed encouragements.
After a few minutes, we moved to the bench, the bright lights overhead flicking on, illuminating the arena, and someone sang the National Anthem.
Not my anthem, since I was Canadian, but an anthem I’d heard enough over the years to know every word.
I couldn’t say it had me feeling particularly patriotic.
It was, however, another step in the building blocks of me getting ready to play some fucking hockey.
A breath, my shoulders bouncing, head shifting side to side. Skates wiggling beneath me, pulse picking up. It didn’t matter how many times I played in this arena, how many professional games I had under my belt, always—always—there were nerves, there was excitement.
It was like I was lacing up my skates for the first time again, hopping out onto the ice for my first game ever.
The one thing in my life that had never disappointed me.
The anthem wrapped up. My pulse sped. Hands twitched.
Fucking game time.
Marcel smacked his stick across my shin guards. “Let’s fucking go, yeah?”
We were playing the Sierra, the newest team in the league, and contrary to most expansion teams, this northern California squad was a tough match-up. The Breakers only had two games against them during the entire season—once on home ice and once away—and the match we’d had up at the Sierra’s home rink in Tahoe a few months back hadn’t gone well.
Part was we weren’t used to playing at altitude.
Part was we weren’t used to playing at that new rink.
Part was that the Sierra’s management had put together a solid team who had surprised us and had solidly beat us.
Total bullshit.
We prided ourselves on our preparation, and we hadn’t been ready. On the flip side, getting our asses kicked meant that I was ready to go that night. This was our home ice. Our fans. Our chance to prove that we weren’t just a sad-ass team that was easily beat. We were a fucking contender who’d won two Cups in recent years, and we were going to win another one.
Unfortunately, the Sierra were a contender, too.
