Page 67 of Puck Daddies
The apartment hums the way it always hums. The fridge cycles. A pipe clicks. Rocco snores once, short, then stops. Meg sighs and snuggles her face deeper into the pillow. Oliver shifts and leaves his hand where it was. It’s quiet in a way that feels like an answer.
The game is over. The clip is online. The league will call. Coach will fine me. Travis exists. The clock on the building got shorter. None of that is bigger than this.
I’m responsible for what I did. I won’t make excuses. I’m working with our counselor. I’ll apologize to the reporter for slapping his tablet and pay to replace it. I’ll apologize to fans for making the story about me, and to my teammates for giving anyone a reason to question our room. I’ll accept whatever discipline comes.
That’s the statement. No spin.
I will not go near Luke. I will not give Travis space in my head. I’ll earn my minutes by being where I’m supposed to be and leaving the rest alone.
Tomorrow I’ll get up early and make breakfast. Oatmeal and fruit. Coffee. I’ll clean the kitchen before she wakes. I’ll take the morning Meals on Wheels route if they need a sub. I’ll carry boxes at Bea’s.
I’ll be useful. I might be a ball of rage, but I can be a useful ball of rage.
I lie there and feel Meg’s breath on my wrist where the blanket gaps. It steadies me better than anything ever could. I match my inhale to hers and hold it for a count. I let it out slow. My shoulders drop into the mattress. The tightness in my chest loosens until it’s just space.
I don’t know what the league will do. I don’t know what a judge will do. But I know what I can do. I can wake up, ice my hands, and get the work done.
I press my bandaged knuckles lightly to the sheet and let the ache be what it is. It isn’t punishment. It’s a reminder. I choose what I do with my rage. I choose to keep my head even when someone calls me distracted. I choose them.
Meg shifts and finds my hand under the blanket without waking. Her fingers curl around two of mine. Oliver’s foot nudges my calf like he’s anchoring me to the bed. Rocco’s breath evens and stays even. The knot in my stomach loosens.
All the other stuff falls away.
23
ROCCO
I tapemy stick and check the board. My wingers are Fitz on the right and Hudson on the left. I pull my jersey on and roll my shoulders. Ellis taps my helmet when he passes. “Own the dots. We’ll feed off that.”
I take draws to lock timing, then run a few quick sets with Fitz so our reads are sharp. Short chips, give-and-go, net drive. The ice feels fast. I can feel my edges under me. Meg is there with Aqua and her crew. I put my mouthguard in and lock in.
Game on.
First period. Opening draw. I set my stick flat and win it back to Ellis. Hudson snaps it up the wall to Fitz. He gains the line, stops up at the dot, and hits me late. Quick shot low blocker. Save. Next rush, I carry the middle, chip left to Vargas, and crash the back post. His shot goes off a leg. We force a turnover and cycle.
Defensive zone. Right-side draw. I beat their center clean and tie him up with my body so Ellis can clear. Back-check next shift, I pick up the late man and block a low wrister with my shin. It stings, but it kills the shot.
A dump-in hits a seam at the dasher and kicks out front. Our goalie gets a piece, but it rolls behind him and in. One–nothing them.
Shit.
We huddle on the bench and reset. “Keep our layers tight,” Coach says. “Win the middle. Remember what we practiced. Eyes on the prize, ladies.”
Second period. I get a shorthanded look when their D blows a wheel on a rim. I pick it off and go in alone. Seconds pass, just me and the puck with everyone protecting me. When I take my shot, it’s clean. But their goalie stays with me and eats it.
That’s the price of being a big guy on the ice. They see you coming a mile away. I skate to the bench, mad at myself. Gotta shake it off with two deep breaths. Too much to do.
Even strength again, our line starts to own the zone time. I win draws in their end. We run a low cycle and keep changing sides to pull their D. Fitz takes a hit to move it to me, I spin it to Hudson, he feeds me the backdoor, and I get a stick on it. Crossbar. I bite down and hunt the rebound. It drifts to the wall.
The third period is trench work. We cut cute plays. Chips, bumps, support below the puck, grinding changes. I keep my head down and take the draws like they decide the night, because they do. I count the linesman’s rhythm and steal small edges. I make sure my stick is quiet.
Every team has music. If you know the notes, you can predict the melody. I talk to myself as I pick up theirs. “Up.” “Wheel.” “Reverse.” “Chorus.”
Eight minutes left, we pin them for a full shift. Hudson fires through the traffic and gets a save, followed by a rebound into the corner. I get there first, reverse to Fitz, set a screen, and tip a point shot wide on purpose to keep them moving.
We change. They ice it.
TV timeout at two minutes. Coach draws on the board. “Win it back, shoot low for a rebound. Net drive. Rocco at the crease. Fitz, backdoor if it kicks far.”
