Page 134 of Test the Ice
“That was a filthyassist,Young! Finally getting your head in the game.” Kane slaps me on the back before the rest of my teammates do the same.
I gladly accept the praise from them.
Lars skates past, getting in position. “How did they cream us for game one but are skating like a bunch of bitches today?”
“Don’t jinx it,” Kane snaps.
I turn and glance at the stands.
Where are they?
“Focus.” Volkova’s voice is stern, like a father’s. “Don’t worry about it.”
I mentally shake myself and focus. If I don’t, he’ll give me another pep talk.
When Reese and Charleigh didn’t show up for warm-ups, I couldn’t seem to get my shit together for the game, and thanks to Coach’s last-minute defensive strategies after the first quarter, I didn’t have time to check my phone to see what was going on.
Then quarter two rolled around, and I was just as sloppy.
Rhodes pulled me to the side, wrapped his bare hand around the back of my neck, and squeezed tight.“What is your problem?”
I quickly explained in between whistle blows, and he shook his head, reassuring me that if something were wrong, I’d know by now. Not to mention, kids are unpredictable–he knows that better than anyone.
And he was right.
I was able to check my phone after the second quarter, and I saw a picture of Charleigh in the jersey I had made for her with a text that said they’d be late.
However, the clock is dwindling, and I still have yet to spot them in the crowd.
Maybe Charleigh spit up everywhere, and they needed an outfit change.
Or maybe she fell asleep, and Reese didn’t want to wake her by bringing her into a rowdy arena with screaming fans. Reese did say that Char’s been trying to cut a tooth, which means she hasn’t been sleeping well.
The whistle blows, and we lose the faceoff.
I skate fast, showing off what I’m known for.
I’m behind the backside of the goal in record time, my eyes tracking the little black puck like it’s the only thing that matters.
“Left!” I shout.
Shavings fly from my hashmarks against the ice, and I block the shot before it can head for Olson.
I send it teetering down the ice where Rhodes is waiting.
The wingers take over, and before I know it, the game is over.
My breaths are labored, my legs ache, but we won.
I wait until the hurrah is finished and race past everyone to get to the locker room.
“Mittens?” someone shouts from behind me.
I pull them off and toss them toward the equipment manager without breaking stride.
“Jeez,” Corbin, a veteran player who doesn’t get as much action anymore, sits on the bench and watches me rush toward my locker. “You’re never the first in here after a game.”
I chuckle, half paying attention, and pull out my phone.
