Page 12 of Two Guys One Puck
“What do you Americans call it…?” I searched my brain for the phrase. “Fake news? I don’t believe this is possible.”
Dopey shrugs again. “How do you think I focus so hard on the goal?”
I take a step away from him. “No wonder they call you Dopey.”
“His ability to nap anywhere make a lot more sense,” Happy adds while fixing the tape on his stick.
“No, they call me Dopey because I’m cute. Duh.” Dopey grabs his bottle and pours water into his mouth, then pushes to his feet. “Y’all better do a good job defending my house today.”
“Just keep the score low, and I’ll make sure we win.” I hold out my gloved hand.
He bumps it with his, then shoves his retainer in his mouth. “Let’s fucking go.”
Coach gives us last-second instructions as our line hops over the wall.
I’m riding a high as soon as my skates hit the ice, but Seaborn isn’t on me. I’m double-teamed by two other defensemen. They couldn’t have changed-up their entire defense just for this game…could they?
They’re leaving open our guys on top, and it’s working. I can’t make any moves with the puck because as soon as it’s passed to me, they trap me between them and knock it away.
Seaborn is on Happy, and this is all fucking wrong. Happy is a great player, but he’s shit against Seaborn. He’s the best enforcer in the league. Almost no one can outplay him. It’s a no-brainer for them to have him on me all night, but this is worse. I wasn’t expecting it, and we’re having trouble fighting it on the fly.
Coach isn’t doing a much better job. He takes out one of our defenders and puts in another winger, switching us to a 1-3-1, but we’re having trouble converting it. So the next time Dopey steals the puck, I take off, trying to get a fast break, using my speed. I get away from my defenders easily and glance over myshoulder, looking for the puck. Dopey sends it down the wall, and I dart over to grab it, already tasting my first goal, but their mountain of a goalie moves faster than any human should be able to and checks me before diving on the puck.
I land hard on my ass and swear in Ukrainian before shoving to my feet, expecting the ref to call it, but they don’t.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re not going to call that?”
“It was inside the crease,” the ref says.
I growl.
A distinct laugh reaches my ears.
Motherfucker.
I turn, finding Seaborn grinning as he takes the handoff from his goalie.
Now I’m annoyed.
Seaborn skates up and, in a weird turn, doesn’t pass it up. He takes it past half like he’s going to play offense.
What the hell is fucking happening?
The first period ends, and by the time we sit down in the locker room, Coach is seething. We’re on our third coach this year, and I’m just glad we got rid of the last nightmare, but Coach Kingsley still needs to prove himself. It’s a fucking miracle we’ve won as many games as we have with the inconsistencies. But until this guy figures out the rest of the team, I’m going to keep playing the way I always have.
I put in one AirPod and lay back on the bench, closing my eyes. I need to tune everything out for a few minutes, but I’m quickly interrupted.
I half-sit up, pausing my music. “What?”
“What can you do about the double teaming?”
“Enjoy it?” I say, and a few guys laugh.
Coach pops an eyebrow. “Maybe you should save that for off the ice.”
“If no one else is going to do shit, why should I? We have a whole ass open player because they are double teaming me, and what have you all done?”
Coach’s brows pull. “He has a point. Anyone want to comment?”
