Page 4 of Just My Puck
“Were you headed to the game?” the boyfriend asks.
“Yeah, but never mind. I’m not into hockey anyway. Guess I’m going to the police station instead. Where’s the closest one? I’m not from here, and well, no phone.”
The girlfriend winces in sympathy. “There’s one a couple of blocks that way,” she says, pointing down the street, to the right of the arena. “Sorry this happened to you. Hope your night gets better.”
“Thank you,” I say, genuinely grateful for their kindness. “Have a great time. Go, uh, T-Rexes?” They both give me a puzzled look.
Right. That’s clearly not the team’s name.
I laugh awkwardly, spin on my heel, and start walking.
Okay, I know I should be freaking out about the fact that I have literally nothing left but the clothes on my back, but hey, that’s my life. It won’t be my first deposition at the police station, and it probably won’t be my last. I also lost one of my apartments to a flood before. Different execution, same result.
I shove my hands in my pockets to warm them when the edge of a piece of cardstock grazes my fingers. I slow my steps, then stop. The tickets. They weren’t in my bag.
I shift on my feet, pulling out the red-and-black tickets and studying them. Slowly, a smile builds on my lips. The police station can wait. I guess I’m going to a hockey game.
2
"I’m pretty sure the girl who was just evacuated on a stretcher doesn’t feel the same way."
Caleb Hawthorne
The puck drops in less than an hour, and a few of us are in the gym, kicking around a soccer ball—our usual pre-game ritual. It helps us decompress, take our minds off hockey, and burn off just enough nervous energy without overdoing it.
Maxime Beaumont groans as Aaron Miles launches the ball, sending it sailing into the rafters.
“Dude, you haveto learn to dial back your strength a little,” Beaumont mutters, hands on his hips.
Miles shrugs. “Don’t hear you complaining when I bodycheck someone out of your way on the ice.”
“Easy, Frenchie Boy,” James Adler says, clapping Beaumont on the back. “We’ll get your ball back.”
Beaumont rolls his eyes as he and Adler grab a pole. Together, they attempt to fish the ball out of the rafters. Suppressing my smile, I let them struggle, even though I know for a fact there are at least two more balls in the equipment room.
After a solid two minutes of failed attempts—and a lot of unnecessary commentary—they finally dislodge the trapped ball, and we get back to playing.
But our streak doesn’t last long.
“Oh, come on!” Miles groans after fumbling a pass. “That was a bad pass.”
“Again with that excuse?” I shake my head.
“Yeah, bro, it’s getting old,” Adler chimes in. “Everyone knows I’m excellent at passing. Now, if it were Beaumont, on the other hand . . .”
That earns a round of laughter. Even Miles, sore loser that he is, cracks a reluctant smile as he steps out of the circle. Meanwhile, Adler and Beaumont have fully shifted to bickering mode, trading choice remarks back and forth like an old married couple.
“Are we gonna finish this, or should I just leave?” grumbles Noah Wilcott, our goalie.
Even more laughter echoes through the gym.
“My apologies, Wally,” Adler says with a toothy grin. “Forgot we had the brother of a soccer champion gracing us with his presence.”
Wally flips him off, not even bothering to argue. He’s an excellent goalie—our last line of defense, and the reason we made it as far as we did last season—but he also fits every goalie stereotype in existence. Moody. Grumpy. Intense.
“All right, let’s go again,” I say, slipping into my team captain’s voice. This whole thing is meant to keep us loose. If we spend the entire time bickering, it kind of defeats the purpose. Granted, arguing is mostly how we communicate, but still.
Truth is, we’re all a little on edge tonight.
