Page 23 of Famous Last Words
Robbie breaks away from his teammates and does a slow yet determined lap of the rink, seemingly in the zone. If it weren’t for his last name emblazoned across his back, I wouldn’t even know it’s him. He looks taller than normal thanks to the added inches of the skates, imposing with all that extra padding and more than a little intimidating.
As he continues his lap, chewing on his mouthguard, he waves up into the crowd, but then he comes to such a sudden stop on his skates it causes shards of ice to spray up into the air, only adding to the theatrics. And it’s then I realize exactly what he’s doing.
My stomach drops, eyes widening when they meet his.No.
As if he can read my thoughts, Robbie grins around his mouthguard, flashing that trademark cocky smile, dimples and all.Yes.
Tipping his chin in my direction, he lifts his stick, points it at his chest—his goddamn heart—before aiming it directly at me with a wink.
When I see my face suddenly projected on the Jumbotron, a part of me dies. Sinking into my chair, my cheeks flame with embarrassment as the excitement of the crowd ricochets around the arena.
I glare down at Robbie, shaking my head when he offers me a devious smirk, chuckling to himself as he skates off to join the rest of his teammates in preparation for the national anthem.Asshole.
CHAPTER 11
ROBBIE
Ican’t remember the last time I ever worked my ass off as much as I have in this game. I’ve fucking near killed myself, and for what? For the Wolves to come in and tear us apart in the third. We were actually winning, 3-1. Now we’re tied in overtime because Rusty Morris can’t control a puck to save his goddamn life. Dude should’ve retired fucking years ago.
With twelve seconds left on the clock, I take a heavy hit, smashed up against the boards and pinned there by two of the Wolves’ third line goons. As their left winger breaks away and rounds the crease, I manage to shake off my opponents, spinning around just in time to see Dallas save a slapshot, every player scrambling to secure the puck.
It’s knocked out of the scrum and secured by the Wolves’ center who must not see me approach because he stupidly passes it to their right winger, giving me a chance to intercept.
There’s a moment of clarity, as the deafening roar of the crowd fades into nothingness, my thudding heartbeat and ragged breaths all I can hear. It’s now or never. With three seconds remaining, I secure the puck between my skates and my stick,cradling it as I break through two Wolves’ players launching at me.
Taking off down the ice, I skate with everything I have toward the net, and then, from the top of the circles, I send the puck sailing the rest of the way with a trademark Robbie Mason danger shot, holding my breath as the Wolves’ goalie throws himself in front of it, a fraction of a second too early, the lamp lighting up nanoseconds before the final siren sounds.
Done.
Satisfied, I turn to skate back to our bench, when I’m inundated by my teammates swarming in, jumping on me until I’m taken to the ice and piled upon in the kind of celebration you’d expect from a championship win. And it’s in this very moment, seeing the unshed tears in the eyes of my teammates, catching a glimpse of the crowd on their feet cheering, the emotion in the air palpable, that I realize something; so far in my career, I’ve scored the winning goal in countless games, so often that it somehow became expected of me. And without realizing it, it was that expectation that took the joy away. Just another goal, just another win, and onto the next. But here, tonight, scoring the winning goal in my first game with a team that hasn’t won a round one game in three seasons, I finally understand what I lost over the last year, what I’ve been missing—passion for the game that I love. And man, it feels fucking good to be back.
Shrugging on my button down, I stifle a groan, my body objecting to the movement. I look down, running my fingers over the angry purple welt bruising the skin below my ribs.
I spent more time against the boards tonight than any game I’ve ever played. Charged at, cross checked from behind, high-sticked. It wasn’t until I was blatantly speared in my gut that the ref finally called a penalty, and only because the footage was being shown on the Jumbotron at the time.
“Mason!”
Jumping, I pull my shirt closed, covering my injuries before turning to find Coach looking at me with that same scowl of disdain he wears so well.
“Yes, Coach?”
He says nothing, just looks at me long and hard, brow furrowed with an angry crease, lips downturned in a perma-frown.
With my jaw set tight, I don’t back down, keeping my chin held high. I mean, I won the fucking game. What can he possibly have to bitch me out about now?
“Good game,” Coach mutters, nodding once before turning and disappearing into the adjoining office.
I stare at the space he just occupied as I button my shirt, wondering for a moment if I just imagined that whole interaction. Was that a compliment? I’m pretty sure it was, despite it looking as if he wanted to punch me in the dick.
“Unfortunately, that’s as good as it gets, my guy.”
I turn, finding Josef, our second line winger grinning at me from his locker as he towel dries his long blond hair.
“Huh?” I tip my chin at him, confused by the cryptic comment hidden within his thick Icelandic accent.
“Draper.” He laughs. “He’s a hard ass. But him telling you good game? It’s basically the equivalent of him telling you he loves you.”
“Oh, yeah…” I manage a light laugh, grabbing my suit jacket. But I’m stopped by what sounds like an argument starting in the showers, my ears pricking at Dallas’s Texan accent uncharacteristically raised.
