Page 1 of Step Puck

1

BILLY

“Uh.” The side of the blade strikes my calf, hard enough to cause the muscle to cramp and seize. The pain crippling, but I’m not going to let Barry win with his underhanded, cheater behavior. No fuckin’ way. I know hockey is a violent game, this is different though. The refs might not have seen the way he hit me. I know the crowd did by the way they’re booing.

I slide on my knees; the pads protect them against the ice and the puck that races at me at the speed of a spaceship in warp drive. I thrust my gloved hand out, batting the puck away, a smirk is Barry’s answer to his crooked swipe.

It won’t be long before the refs see what the fans had on the large-screen television up high. That’ll be payback.

A gasp rises from the crowd surrounding the rink, fans from both teams wait to see what I do. And I give them their show. The puck is in play again, the opposing defenseman strikes and it rockets, hitting the ice, once, twice and slides toward me from the left. I drop to my knees glad they’re thickly padded, the bone-chilling cold seeps through the layers I wear, doesn’t help the wince I try to hide, and throw myself toward the left side of the net, my arms hold my stick ready to block. It moves in slow motion, sliding along the ice, both teams trying to take control but unable to get a blade at it no matter what.

Closer. Closer it comes. I wait and watch hyperaware. My heart pumps the blood faster and faster through my veins, a feverish exhilaration thrums through my body, every nerve on high alert with electric excitement.

Almost close enough. I grip my stick in both hands, not paying attention to the scuffle between my team member and a player of the opposing team, the blades of their sticks slice over the ice. I can’t. They fight for control and I’m waiting to keep my unbroken record. No puck has gotten past me all year. I’m the goalie to watch. There are bets as to when or if my record will be broken this season. No. Not this year.

I slide my stick at the puck the men are still fighting over and with a loud clack the puck flies away from our net. The horn sounds the end of the final and we’ve won again. We’re on our way to win the cup again. I know the Bay City Brawlers will do it. We will win the playoffs and the cup. We have the best team two years in a row. No way we’ll lose.

The cheers, hoots and yells are enough to bring the roof down and I slowly climb to my feet, my job makes my knees and body hurt like hell. Like I’m older than my thirty-five years. My imminent future includes a hot tub and ice bath afterward. This is getting harder and harder every year that passes. Hockey plays hell on the body, ruining the joints and previously broken bones.

I limp off the ice, my brothers of the team slap me on my back, knocking our helmets together. I try to show the enthusiasm everyone else on the team has but I’m bone and soul-tired, all I can think of is that hot tub that’s calling my name with a bellow-like thunder.

Still limping I carefully make my way down the tunnel to the locker room. The blades of my skate's smack against the rubber floor to my locker where I drop down to the bench with a pained sigh. My feet ache like you wouldn’t believe and the relief when I untie the laces. Such fucking release. I need that ice bath now.

An hour later I’m a new man. As new a man as I can be at thirty-five with the beginning stages of arthritis from all the broken bones and sprains I’ve had. I’m limping from that attack Barry gave me and his suspension from the rest of the series makes my heart bloom in delight.

Now for a fuckin’ relaxing time at the bar with the guys. Some that have families won’t be staying long but us single guys will be celebrating for most of the night.

The Puck Bar is the Bay City Brawlers home watering hole, and we like to kick up a mighty good time with girls and booze. Not exactly in that order, but the girls there are pretty willing for a winning hockey player. By later tonight we’ll be taking one either home, to her place or the nearest hotel. I don’t take them to my place, more impersonal that way and with less of a possibility of them thinking it’s more than it is. A typical one-night stand. She’ll have one hell of a night to remember it by. Not a brag. Just the truth.

The bar is practically two steps away from the stadium, both being built with the other in mind. It took me only about fifteen minutes to jog through the almost now empty stadium to the wooden old-fashioned building next door. I throw open the door and like the TV show Cheers shouting Norm, the room erupts into varying degrees of volume, “Billy!” And “Hey Billy, glad you’re here man.”

Still limping from that bad kick, the icing the doc gave me has taken a lot of the swelling and bruising down. I try to walk normally but with every step the pain on the front bone streaks agony through the whole leg.

Waving and yakking and laughing with people that know me, and fans who only know me from watching when I played. They think they know me. No one really does though.

There are three tables pushed together, players sit at with their girlfriends, wives and whoever they’re with. I know everyone there except for one girl. She looks familiar but I can’t place her face.

She’s beautiful in an exotic way. Long slick, deep black hair, a darker complexion. Her pink jeans and floral top are painted on her full, hourglass curves. She’s a knockout. Staring at her, my face feels tight as if it’s changing into a wolf-like creature with jaws open and saliva dripping. I should be ashamed of myself, thoughts of what I want to do to her race through my mind. Up against the wall. Bent over the arm of the sofa. Wet and slick from the shower. All of the above and more, any way I can.

I can’t imagine what she’d look like if I could see her face to face. Everything is from the side.

“Billy bro. Come join us. Chet get him a chair.” Gavin waves his hand for me to take a seat. Chet the brown-noser that he is rushes to get a chair from another table, bumping into the table with his hip making it rock, right out from the people that sit there. He doesn’t even acknowledge the jeers of anger. Everyone at the table greets me except for the dark-haired girl. She picks up her glass and sips her drink as if I’m not here. I’m captivated and I haven’t met her yet. I try to think of something to get her attention. To make her turn and face me, of course, my mind comes up blank.

“Billy, I think you know everyone here. Except for this little lady. I don’t even know her name. Stupid memory.” Gavin grins his most engaging, panty-melting-every-woman-no-matter-how-old-loves him.

“I’m Lorelei. I don’t think anyone introduced me. Jackie left already.” She has the rich, contralto voice of a singer. Melodious. Musical. A siren of mythology fiction who lured fishermen to their deaths with her beauty and song. And oh, so familiar.

Familiar as in. “Lorelei?”

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2

LORELEI

I turn my head quick enough for whiplash at the voice behind me. A baritone I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear again even if I am sitting at the table with some of the Bay City Brawlers team. I wasn’t expecting the number one goalie in the National Hockey League to be here. Stupid, I know.

My eyes search his body as if starved for water. Billy would be the fountain for my everlasting thirst. I haven’t seen him in…I don’t know…maybe five years?

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