Page 40 of In My Hockey Era
ROAD GAMES & MIND GAMES
Bennett
The play develops fast, the puck zipping across the ice and off the stick of our left wing as I weave through the neutral zone.My legs burn, but it’s the kind of fire I live for, the kind that drowns out everything else.Or at least, it should.
I keep my eyes on the rush, tracking the puck as it streaks up the center.I send a crisp pass to Chase, and he carries it over the blue line.Defense collapses on him immediately, but he finds Ford on the far side.Ford rips a shot, and I charge the net for the rebound.
The goalie deflects the puck off his pad, and it spits out right in front of me.Perfect.I wind up—
Quinn would probably chirp me for fanning on a shot like this.
The thought comes out of nowhere, distracting me for half a second too long.The opposing defenseman shoves into my side, knocking me off-balance as I get the shot off.It’s not clean, but it’s enough to slip through a gap in the goalie’s pads and trickle into the net.
The goal horn blasts.The boys swarm me against the glass.
“Ugly as hell, but it counts,” Ford says, knocking his helmet against mine.
I grin, catching my breath.“Yeah, yeah.Put it in the highlight reel.”
As we skate back to the bench, my mind flickers again to Lucy, completely uninvited.I try to shake it, refocus, but damn it, she’s been creeping into my head more and more lately.Maybe it’s because she doesn’t treat me like I’m anything special.Or maybe it’s because she gives as good as she gets.
Or maybe it’s because when I was boarding a flight for this road trip, I wanted to text her.
I settle onto the bench, gripping my stick as I watch the next shift take the ice.Coach claps my shoulder, muttering, “Nice work, Wilder,” but I barely hear it.
I think about Lucy’s voice through the phone a few nights ago, the way she ranted about plot twists in that damn hockey romance.I think about the way she looked curled up on her couch, her hair messy, her hoodie too big, stealing my fries like she had every right to.
I should be thinking about my next shift.Instead, I’m wondering if she’s watching this game.Wondering if she saw my goal.Wondering if she’d make fun of me for nearly whiffing the shot.
I shake my head, exhaling sharply.
Focus, Wilder.You’ve got two more periods to play.
And an entire road trip to get her out of your head.
• • •
The bar is loud, packed with fans still buzzing from the game.We’re in enemy territory, but hockey people are hockey people—some good-natured chirping, a few drinks, and it’s all the same.It’s one of the things I love about the sport.
Chase, our Finnish goalie Ollie, and I have claimed a high-top near the back, beers in hand, half-watching a late West Coast game on the TV above the bar.My body still hums with post-game adrenaline, but the beer helps settle the edge.
“Wasn’t your best goal, Wilder,” Ollie says, smirking over his pint.“Looked like you shot blind.”
“Thanks, dick,” I say, lifting my glass.“It went in, didn’t it?”
Chase snorts.“Only ‘cause their goalie had the reaction time of a corpse.”
I flip him off, and he just grins, and takes a long sip of his drink.The three of us make small talk for a while, talking hockey, next week’s schedule, and Ollie’s ridiculous ice fishing stories.
They’re one beer ahead of me because I stayed back at the hotel to text with Natalie—the latest saga in her divorce—something I know entirely too much about, unfortunately.
Then, of course, it happens.
A pair of girls slide up to our table—one blonde and one brunette, both dressed for the night, the kind of women who know exactly what they’re doing.I clock them before they even say a word.We get this a lot, especially on the road.
“Hey, guys,” the blonde says, leaning against the table, her eyes lingering on me.“You played a great game tonight.”
Her friend nods.“We were watching from the lower bowl.You totally carried your team.”
