Page 28 of The Pucker and the Princess
It’s riveting.
Grinning, I soak it all in, standing and clapping and chanting along with the crowd when the Emeralds score the first goal.
I might’ve had my doubts about how suitable this was for payback, but after this? It’s definitely more than enough.
This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dozer
The game isfast and hard, everyone leaving it all on the ice. Only one actual fight breaks out early in the third period, but it’s when I’m on the bench, and Maloney holds his own against the other team’s D-man, grabbing him by the sweater and yanking him to the ice before the refs swoop in and break it up.
Which makes the crowd boo. Everyone loves a good fight, after all.
Maloney skates to the penalty box, sitting and swigging his water. He’s new to the team this year, a recent recruit from the Juniors. I haven’t talked to him much, but after this I might give him a few pointers to keep in mind for future fights. The kid obviously has no problem dropping his gloves when needed.
If I had to guess, Maloney and I aren’t on the same line because coach wants a good fighter on the ice at any given time. I know that’s why Lewis, the other enforcer, and I never skate the same lines either.
I scan the crowd in the area where Marissa should be sitting, trying again to see if I can spot her. If she were right up by the plexiglass, I might be able to see her, but I know I got her seats farther back, which makes her harder to pinpoint in a large group. And we have a full house tonight.
I’ve been looking for her on and off anytime I have a second all night, but haven’t managed to find her.
I hope she came.
I hope she’s having fun.
I hope I get to see her afterward.
I sent her a text between the second and third periods telling her how to get to the friends and family area so I can meet her after the game, but I didn’t have time to see if she responded.
As a kid, my mom and dad would always take me out for a treat after a game, to celebrate a win or to commiserate after a loss. Either way, didn’t matter. And that tradition is still deeply ingrained in me, even though it’s less consistent now. The younger guys sometimes like to go out and party after a win, particularly against a rival or after an important game. And I’ll usually go with them. But my preference is for something a little more low-key on a regular basis, just hanging with a friend and having a beer or something. Or maybe something without alcohol, especially if we have another game the following day.
The coach calls my line, and it’s time to take the ice and quit thinking about Marissa.
My heart pounds, my legs pumping as I rush into the fray, checking one of the other team’s wingers, leaving an opening for Deluca to snag the puck and hit it off the boards in a pass toChalmers. The move’s so quick, the other team is scrambling to catch up, and Chalmers is skating hard, circling around behind the net and zinging the puck past the goalie and lighting the lamp behind the glass.
The crowd screams their approval, and the song that plays when we score fills the arena as we reset at center ice.
The other team is mad that we’ve scored again. I can see it in their faces and posture. One of ’em’s gonna be gunning for Chalmers, try to take him out so he can’t keep scoring because he’s responsible for two of our three goals tonight. And we’ve been holding them at one goal since early in the second period.
They’re hungry for another point. There’s only six minutes left on the clock, and they want to tie it up, at least, and force us into overtime.
It’s my job to make sure they don’t get the chance.
Once the puck drops, I surge forward, following Chalmers and watching out for anyone gunning for him.
Chalmers gets the puck again, and Jensen—one of the Beavers’ defensemen—takes off in his direction with the short, choppy strides he’s known for, and I race to intercept.
Jensen slams into Chalmers, shoving him into the boards just before I plow into him, grabbing ahold of his sweater and yanking him away from Chalmers.
He turns, lips pulling back in what could be either a snarl or a smile—though his smile’s just as ugly without the mouthguard with his missing front tooth. I don’t know why he wouldn’t get a bridge or something—and his fist comes flying at my face. Dropping my head, I take the hit on the helmet, toss my stickaside, and use both hands to pull him down, wrapping an arm around him in a reverse headlock. We’re swarmed. Hands grab at my jersey, but I don’t let go. They need to know I’m not gonna let him take out my teammates without retaliation.
Whistles blow, but nothing changes. Jensen pummels my torso, but my pads absorb the blows. I’m not hitting, just holding him bent forward at the waist, unwilling to let go until I’m clear to get away, which I won’t be until the refs peel the scrum away from us.
After several minutes, I’m still surrounded, but no one’s pushing on me other than Jensen, and then the whistle blows again. The refs grab each of us, pulling us apart.
“Time to let go, Boggs. Come on.”
