Page 2 of Cross Check Christmas
I catch Griffin watching the action from his net. He gives me that look—the one that says 'I love you buddy, but what the heck?'
I shrug. “He skated into me!"
The game's tied with two minutes left. Coach's face has moved from purple to a concerning shade of magenta.
Owen appears on my left like magic—he's got this weird sixth sense about where to be on the ice. "Ready to show them what we can do when you're not trying to break the league record for hits?"
"I wasn't trying to break it." I grin. "I was trying to shatter it."
Sawyer grins. "Follow my lead."
We break into formation and Sawyer takes the puck, dancing through defenders while Owen creates space. I resist the overwhelming urge to check the guy marking me.
The three of us move in perfect sync—years of practice making us read each other's minds. Sawyer passes the puck to Owen who draws two defenders. I slip behind their defense, completely unmarked because they're all too busy watching Owen dance.
"Now!" Owen sends the puck through a gap.
I catch it clean, fake left, and spot Sawyer streaking toward the net. The goalie commits to me—sucker. I slide the puck across the crease.
Sawyer buries it top shelf.
The crowd erupts as we crash together in celebration before returning to center for face-off.
The puck drops, and the Orlando Eclipse's center snags it. Time to go hunting.
I glide across the ice, matching his speed while staying just out of view. Most players check their right side obsessively, but their left? That's my sweet spot. Like a shark circling its prey, I drift into his blind spot.
The center's getting cocky now, his stick handling loose and casual. Amateur hour.
I slide in close. One smooth lift of my stick and... the puck's mine.
"Surprise!" I sing-song as I peel away.
The center's cursing would make a sailor blush. I spot Sawyer ahead and send him a perfect pass. He catches it without breaking stride because he's fancy like that.
The crowd's on their feet. Thirty seconds left. Sawyer weaves through their defense then dishes it to Owen.
Owen winds up for what looks like a rocket of a shot. The goalie drops into his butterfly, ready for the blast.
Owen’s got that intense look he gets before taking a shot—the one that makes rookies wet themselves.
But Owen's not shooting.
Instead, he sends a no-look pass right to where I'm sneaking in on the back door, completely forgotten by everyone except my linemates. The puck hits my stick and I have more open net than a soccer goal.
The goalie's eyes go wide when he realizes his mistake.
"Hey there!" I wave as I roof it.
The horn blares and the Blizzard Dome explodes. Game over, Titans win! The crowd's losing their minds, and Coach Knight might actually be smiling under that mustache.
"That's how it's done!" I crash into Owen and Sawyer, nearly taking us all down in celebration. "And I didn't even have to hit anyone!"
I'm barely through my first cup of coffee the next morning when my phone buzzes. It's the front office requesting my presence for an "urgent meeting." Because that's totally not ominous at all.
When I arrive at the executive offices, it's like walking into an intervention.
Malcolm Chase, our owner, sits behind his desk wearing his trademark "I'm about to say something you won't like" expression.
