Page 23 of My Virgin Puck

CHAPTER NINE -

Mason

Rival’s week is the busiest week on the calendar. Media commitments. Fan magazine interviews. Public appearances.

You name it - we have to do it.

But it all leads up to this moment.

My stomach gives a fizzy buzz as I walk through the players entrance at Viking Arena. Miles Johnson is ahead of me, the pinnacle of concentration etched on his steely-eyed face. Noah Edwards would already be in the locker room, running through plays and looking for holes in the opposition’s tactics.

We’re the Vancouver Vikings, and beating Toronto means more to us than anything else.

“Mason!”

A call from down the corridor stops me at the front door of the locker room. I turn and see Jamie Fisher racing up, his sports bag slung over his shoulder. If there’s one player who doesn’t wear a game face, it’s Jamie.

“What happening, Fisher?” I grunt, pushing forward on the door.

The familiar smell of the locker room wafts around me as Jamie follows in behind me. A mix of fresh cologne and sweaty old dudes isn’t a pleasant smell, but it sure as hell beats the stench that seeps through this place at the end of the game.

I move over to my locker and Jamie is still hot on my heels.

“I heard about you and that girl from the office,” Jamie says, his brows wagging. “You’re welcome, bro.”

He cups my shoulder and winks with a twist of his head.

“Urgh, what exactly am I thanking you for?”

“I lined that up for you man!” Jamie beams. “Reverse phycology, dude. I made the bet, and even though you still won, you felt like you had to go and ask that babe out anyway.”

My brow grips in a hard ‘V’. I’m struggling to make sense of the logic, but I’ve got better things to be doing than worrying about Jamie Fisher right now.

“Yeah, right…” I say, waving a hand. “Thanks. Thanks a bunch.”

Jamie huffs. He’s not completely satisfied with my feint gratitude, but Coach Best has stormed through the door and he’s scribbling on the whiteboard with a hurried hand that is demanding we settle down and get focused.

After a team meeting that revolved around Coach Best basically telling us not to fuck anything up, we’re out on the ice and I’m searching the stands for the long ruby red locks of my beautiful girl.

Gripping my stick, I round the edge of the rink, staring up into the dark stands towards the corporate boxes. At the very front of the box that’s glowing a bright red colour, I see Madi waving frantically down at me, her wide smile beaming as white as the ice I’m skating on.

My arm waves as I cup my lips to blow a kiss into the stands.

The countdown for the start of the game comes around quickly and before I know it, the Toronto players are smashing into me with their full force. I’m nowhere near the puck, but this is a Rival Game – the puck doesn’t matter.

“VI-KINGS! VI-KINGS! VI-KINGS!”

The crowd is building, and the atmosphere is incredible. My stick vibrates in my hands as the chanting grows louder and louder towards the end of the first period. The scores remain level and I haven’t even touched the puck.

I’m nowhere near the game.

The biggest contribution I’ve made is when I was floored by Toronto’s star defensemen and my helmet flew off my head and rolled into the net of the goal.

Coach Best has been screaming his head off and when he’s giving his team talk at the interval, the veins in his neck are almost bursting. Miles, the captain, isn’t much happier. He’s given me a few mouthfuls of abuse and told me where he’s going to shove my stick if I don’t get into the game soon.

I skate onto the ice for the second period, but I should have just stayed put on the side-lines. My head is a mess and with every knock Toronto shake me with, it just gets worse.

All I can think about is Madi. It’s been a long week. This is the closest I’ve been to her in days, and even though she’s right at the top of the arena, I swear I can feel her intoxicating aura from here.

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