Page 57 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
The problem is, she hadn’t replied.
Or maybe she had, but after I sent it, I had to relinquish Smitty’s phone back to him, finish getting dressed, and focus on the game.
A game that’s been fast and brutal and?—
“Fuck!” I growl as Kingston Bang from the Eagles takes advantage of my distraction by crushing me into the boards.
My stick cracks, the fiberglass composite not able to withstand the big fucker’s force and my ribs groan in protest. Because, like I said, King is a big fuck. I drop the two halves of my stick and shove him back, ignoring the pain in my side, the throb in my jaw, the way the asshole Eagles fans on the other side of the swaying glass are pounding on the plexiglass, shouting and cursing at me while, at the same time, cheering on King.
That’s hockey, and I know our fans do it too.
I just?—
“Fuck,” I growl again, shoving him off and hauling ass toward the bench.
Our equipment manager, Ted, is already waiting at the end, stick extended toward me.
I snag it and turn back in a rush, rejoining Leo and Aiden, who’ve been holding down the fort for me in the offensive zone (and doing it while I was daydreaming about a certain woman at seriously the wrong time).
Leo’s pinned against the boards, scrabbling for the puck with King, Cam Jackson from the Eagles giving him a shove to his back before joining the scrum.
I whistle, watch Leo flick his gaze in my direction and jerk my stick to the corner, trying to take advantage of the open space.
It won’t last long, but when Leo pops the puck over King’s stick, I’m able to swoop in and scoop it up.
The Eagles defense is on me a mere heartbeat later, but I brace and keep position of the puck.
Watching.
Waiting.
Grinding my way to the front of the net.
My stick is slashed. I’m shoved from behind. Pain radiates through my hands and my core, all the muscles in my body working hard to keep my balance.
But I stay on my feet, retain possession of the puck.
And I watch.
And wait.
Leo streaks toward the net, drawing the goalie’s focus. One of the defensemen currently hacking the shit out of me curses and peels off, taking after him.
But I’m not trying to get the pass to Leo.
Nope.
I’m focused on Aiden…who’s circling around behind me.
I fake the pass, pretend I’m going to loft it over to Leo.
And, instead, I use the back of my stick and flick the biscuit between my legs.
Aiden makes use of his extremely talented hands to scoop up the puck, and he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t try to do anything fancy. He just takes advantage of his proximity to the goal and the mass of players—including Leo and myself—in front of the net and rips off a shot.
It’s already in the back of the goal before the Eagles realize Leo doesn’t have the puck.
The red light flickers on.
