Page 68 of Puck Daddies
Next out, I set my stance at the dot, center left, our bench side. I watch the linesman’s hand. Drop. Their team moves like a chorus line, swift and predictable now that I know their rhythm.
I sweep it to Hudson. He wastes no time and shoots low pad. The rebound pops to my forehand. I jam it once, twice.
The goalie sprawls.
I pull to my backhand and chip. It hits his shoulder and drops flat on the line. A defenseman swings. I shove my stick through and tap it across.
Red light. Horn. The sound hits like a wall, and then it’s just noise with our colors in it, black and green.
I don’t celebrate big. I skate to the glass and look up. Meg is on her feet, both hands up. Aqua is yelling into a phone. Tom is pounding the rail. Bex is whooping. Anthony is filming. I point once and turn to the bench. The guys mob me. Fitz smacks my helmet. “You earned that.”
But it’s not over yet. More work to do. Always.
With only minutes left, we’re back out there, and I’m listening to their music, watching the choreography play out. Now that Iknow the tune, it’s almost too easy. Last draw with five seconds left. I pin it to the linesman’s skates and keep it there.
Horn. Win.
A fucking win.
The crowd goes whatever is beyond wild. I’m right there with them. I can’t believe it either. Moments blur together after that. The handshake line is quick. In the tunnel, I swallow the leftover adrenaline and breathe. The room is loud. Stick taps on stalls. Towels snapping. Moods are high. It’s a rare win for the Baltimore Black Devils, and we relish it.
Coach walks in and lifts a hand, so we fall silent. “Good job, guys. Don’t get ahead of yourselves. Long season to go.”
Fitz whines, “Let us enjoy the moment, man.”
Coach chuckles on his way out.
I sit, untape, and check my phone. Siena sent an email.Rocco—checking in. I need a firm yes or no by Friday to hold the New York block. If now isn’t the time, early summer is possible. I think you have something worth capturing. Don’t leave me hanging. —Siena.
I stare at the screen. The room buzzes around me. I picture Meg at the table last night with the three-week notice. I picture Nonna at her kitchen table playing an old record and saying my name like it would carry meaning one day. Two paths through the future.
I answer Siena:Thank you. I’ll give you a clear answer by Friday.
Hudson is already dressed. “You good?”
“I’m torn. New York soon or the shop.”
“You’ll pick right. I trust you.”
That makes one of us.
We park and head up. The apartment is dim. I drop my bag. A knock comes not ten seconds later. Not loud, but not neighbor-soft either.
I check the peephole. A man in a cheap jacket holds a manila envelope and a small Pelican case. He checks the hall camera like he knows where it is without looking.
He’s either lost or the worst scammer on the planet. No good scammer would dress like a scrawny grunge rocker from the nineties who never changed his clothes in the three decades since.
“Looking for Fitz,” he says when I ask through the door.
“Name?”
“My best friends call me Cash. Fitz asked me to drop off some homework.”
I keep the chain on when I open the door. The man is squirrelly, and I’m glad Meg isn’t home. I don’t want her anywhere near this guy. His twitches have twitches.
I narrow my gaze on him. “What kind of homework are you doing for Fitz?”
He tilts his head, looking me up and down. “You’re Rocco, right?”
