Page 32 of The Cutting Edge
The crowd screams in delight, two goals in just over three minutes.
Logan returns to the bench, and the camera zooms in on his face – all stubble, dark eyes, and practically gamey with testosterone as he laughs and chats with the player sitting next to him. He takes off his helmet and wipes the sweat from his face with a teal Slashers' towel. It’s literally the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen on TV. It might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen anywhere.
“Close your mouth, girl,” says Marissa.
I’m busted and I know it.
And then I see it: Logan quickly checking his phone from the bench.
I guess I’m not the only one who’s busted.
Chapter twelve
Coco
Myphonedingsagain.
Still not watching?Logan texts.
I accidentally closed my eyes during that goal, could you do it again?I text him, adding the winky face emoji.
Hmm…I’ll see what I can do.
I tell Marissa about the exchange.
“It would be pretty funny if he went out there and scored another goal,” she says.
“Maybe some of the other players would like a turn to make a goal,” I crack.
After another fifteen or so minutes of play, the score is still 2-0.
At the start of the second period, the ref drops the puck and Logan gets the jump on the Capitals center and sends the puck sailing for the third time in a row. This run of good fortune is not without its consequences, however, because before Logan makes it anywhere near the opposing team’s goal, two Capitals players smash him into the plexiglass railing at the left corner of the rink near their goal, and one of them clocks Logan right in the jaw. He does not take this lightly, and soon half the players are throwing punches out on the ice. Logan, for his part, knocks the player who punched him onto the ice with a single blow, sending his stick and helmet skittering across the rink.
A brawl ensues and within seconds, half the players on both sides have been drawn in. They stop the play clock and the refs attempt to pull the warring players apart.
Penalties are called all around, and both Logan and the two opposing players who attacked him end up in the penalty box.
He looks pissed as he glides towards the box, and the TV cameras show him talking to another player just before he goes in.
“That’s not right! Logan didn’t start that fight,” I say to no one in particular.
“Can you imagine what a different sport figure skating would be if you could just clock somebody who trash-talked you on the ice?” muses Marissa.
The two of us crack up at the thought.
“I’d have put some money on Michelle Kwan back in the day. Or Debi Thomas. Those ladies are not to be trifled with,” Marissa says.
“True,” I say. “I know Tanya Harding gets the rap for being a brawler, but I always thought Nancy Kerrigan looks like she could be a secret agent hitwoman, like for the CIA, or something.
“I can see that. Professional figure skating opens a lot of doors,” says Marissa. “I’m pretty sure they used flight attendants as spies back in the 1960s, so I can totally see the government recruiting Nancy Kerrigan as a figure skating assassin. She’s a pressure player, that one.
We lose ourselves in a discussion of which of our figure skating contemporaries might make excellent candidates for the CIA.
“Ooh! What about Alysa Liu? She has a total killer instinct, plus she looks so sweet and innocent, nobody would ever expect her to be a highly trained government assassin,” I say.
“Oh yeah, she’s a good one,” remarks Marissa.”One of her flying camel spins to the throat and it’s bye-bye bad guy.”
I notice Logan looks like a caged animal as he rides the bench with an eye on the penalty clock. His irritation is visceral when Washington manages to score a goal, even one player down.
