Page 44 of Face Off
We’re getting obliterated in front of the home crowd, and all that momentum we had before the game has left the building.
The refs won’t give us a break. We can’t find a rhythm. Our transitions are sloppy, and we’re a half second late on every breakaway.
It’s excruciating to watch.
There’s a whistle signaling another penalty. It’s followed by a chorus of boos, and I crane my neck to see who’s the lucky one to join me.
“Assholes,” Hartwell curses, throwing her stick next to mine as she collapses on the bench beside me.
“Pleasure seeing you here, Red,” I say, and she snorts. “What are you doing time for?”
“Closing my hand on the puck, which is bullshit because I dropped it the second I had possession. I know the rules.” She stretches out her legs and groans. “Why have a replay system in place if you’re not going to use it?”
“I like when you get feisty.” I hand her a bottle of Gatorade, and she takes it. “I’d ask how you’re enjoying your first start, but I think I know the answer to that.”
Emerson rubs her jaw. Her right cheek has a nick on it, a small cut from a stick to the face. “All these people are here to see me, and I’m playing like I’ve never been on the ice before. It’s embarrassing.”
“We all have bad days,” I reassure her. “The good news is we still have the third period ahead of us. You know how quickly things change.”
She takes a sip of the orange drink, and I watch the bob of her throat when she swallows. A drop hangs to the corner of her mouth, and her tongue sneaks out to lick it away.
That’s distracting.
“It’s a lot harder to shift that momentum when nothing is going our way. Jesus. What is all that banging?” Emerson asks. She looks behind the penalty box and snorts. “The girls are trying to get your attention, Miller.”
I follow her line of sight and see a group of five women wearing my jersey right against the glass. They’ve cut the fabric to show off their stomachs and cleavage, and I give them an awkward wave.
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we went to someone’s office and held up signs that say ‘can I hold your stick? or ‘put a baby in me, Miller’ while they were working?” I ask Emerson. “Probably a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
“Kind of like the alien babies,” she says under her breath, and I grin.
“Hey.” I tap her skate. “Sounds like someone had a good time last night.”
“With my new friends, yes.”
“But you enjoyed yourself while I was in the area, so we’re getting somewhere.”
“The bar is low, Miller.” She sets the bottle down on the ledge of the box. “You’re back in thirty seconds.”
“Thanks for keeping an eye out for me, Red. I’m going to pretend it’s because you care, not because you’re trying to get rid of me.” I scoop my stick off the ground and check to make sure my helmet is tight. “Chin up, buttercup. We’ve got time to turn this shit show around.”
“If you ever call me buttercup again, I will end you,” she says, her arms folded across her chest and an evil gleam to her eye.
“Atta girl,” I say when I jump back on the ice, grinning when her cheeks turn as red as her hair.
FOURTEEN
EMMY
I’ve giveneverything to hockey.
I’ve missed out on birthdays and family events because of practice and games. I’ve sacrificed blood and sweat and tears. Pushed my body to the brink of exhaustion time and time again, only to come up short on the biggest night of my life.
I’ve never been this angry or disappointed in myself.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror and sigh. My legs throb and my feet burn. New blisters sprouted up on my toes between the first and second periods, but I taped them and pushed through the pain.
As the adrenaline wears off and the reality of the last couple of hours settles in, everything hurts.
