Page 24 of Two Guys One Puck
“You picked?” Ktytor says under his breath when Gatlin is gone.
I smirk. “You sure as fuck didn’t.”
He steps into my space. “Bullshit. I orchestrated this truce.”
“That ego of yours really needs a lot of feeding, doesn’t it?” I lean in, not backing down.
He rolls his eyes, stepping back. “Maybe it just wants a single compliment from you.”
I scoff, sure he’s not serious. “We’ll see if you deserve it after we win.”
“At least you’re competitive.”
It’s single elimination, but we win our first and second games, somehow working well together. Falling in sync is easier than I expect it to be. There isn’t any fighting over who’s side. We call things out and help when needed.
As I watch, I realize how good a position we’re in. How many guys picked a friend to play with or really anyone they knew without regard to strengths or weaknesses, so most of them get annihilated by the pros. It makes Ktytor and I look better.
As the competition narrows down, the games get more intense. These are guys who have played together professionally for at least a season, if not more. They are teammates while Ktytor and I can barely have a conversation without coming to blows. We win the third game by the skin of our teeth.
Our fourth is against their goalie and a first-line winger.
We set, and their goalie takes the ball, driving it down the middle with lightning force. Ktytor slams it back, sending it on a wicked angle.
“Son of a biscuit!” Their goalie dives for it, colliding with their winger, and they smack together, both stumbling back.
“Don’t give yourselves concussions. Jesus fucking Christ,” Fig calls out, exasperated.
I bite back a laugh while the winger retrieves the ball. He offers it to the goalie, who snatches it. Ktytor side eyes me with asmirk. I’m sure he’s thinking the same thing I am: we have to use their frustration against them.
We do just that, driving it down the line as often as possible. Making them question each other and collide once more. It’s close, but Ktytor and I are so in sync, I don’t even have to think about it.
“Match point.” Ktytor offers me the ball.
“You can serve it.”
“Are you sure, darling?”
“I’m sure.” I can admit he’s better.
He nods, setting himself up. He drives it to their side, and it comes back on the corner. I spring to get the ball, barely sending it back over the net. We’re both breathing hard and sweating. He gets the next one, and the ball goes back and forth this round almost longer than the entire game for just this point, neither team willing to let it go.
Finally, Ktytor gets a mean spin on the ball, sending it low between them. Somehow, the winger gets a piece of it, catching me off guard. I get my paddle up, but I’m going to miss it. Ktytor gets to it, shoving me out of the way in the process.
I stumble back, not even giving a shit I’m about to land on my ass because my attention is glued to the ball.
They miss, we get the point, and I hit the floor hard.
“Fuck,” I grunt, knowing I’m going to feel that the rest of this camp, maybe longer.
Ktytor whips around, searching my face. He offers a hand. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I lie, letting him help me up.
I’m stiff, but I hide it. Hockey players are good at that.
“You sure?” a trainer asks.
I nod, swallowing back the soreness. “I’m good. Can’t be worse than those two colliding.”
