Page 135 of Thoroughly Pucked

“And you’re a good vet.” I catch the doctor’s eyes and say sincerely, “You saved my friend Trina’s dog a couple years ago.”

“Nacho, right?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“The goodest three-legged dog around. That was quite a story when he ate those panties,” he says.

“It sure was,” I say.

Five days that feel like five years later, Little Friends has good news. Puck Fitzgibbons is mine. Or ours, really. Both guys are out of town at games, but I text them right away.

Aubrey: Puck has a new home.

Dev: Yes, he does.

Ledger: And you will soon too.

I think I know what he means. But I don’t even feel rushed from the veiled suggestion.

Over the next few weeks, we see each other as often as we can, given our schedules. We’re dating, and somehow, it’s all working out. In fact, it’s going so well that a few weeks later, when they’re at practice and I’m walking my cocktail dog, I text Trina and Ivy and ask them to join me on a special errand this weekend.

58

GAME TIME

Ledger

December…

I’m not a superstitious guy. But lately, since Aubrey’s been coming to the games, I’ve become a man of habit. When I hit the ice, I look to the stands, find her in her usual seat, then wrap my gloved hand around my other wrist ever so briefly.

A sign. Just for her.

She wraps her right hand around her left wrist, making the gesture back.

Then I play my heart out. Not for a place in the hall of fame, or for the next phase of my career, or for a top rank in the sport.

Just because…Ilove the game.

Tonight, when the puck drops, that’s how I play. The crowd roars as we win the face-off, then as I move fast and aggressively down the ice, weaving in and out of the Phoenix defense, angling for the puck.

I miss the first shot.

But so does Chase when it’s his turn.

I grit my teeth, narrowing in on the opportunities with every line change, dodging the bloodthirsty D-men on the other team. Then, near the end of the first period, Chase spots an opening and passes to me, and just like that, I’m flying on a breakaway. My heart rate speeds up as I get closer to the net.

The bite of blades cutting through ice echoes off the walls of the rink as I race toward the goal with the black disc. As soon as the puck leaves my stick, thunderous applause erupts.

And I choose to enjoy every moment of the goal.

Later, after the game ends with our victory, I leave the locker room hoping to meet my girl in the hallway, but someone cuts me off.

My father.

My shoulders tighten.

Of course he’s here. He broadcast the game tonight for the national network. He’s in his tailored navy-blue suit, no tie, his affable smile pasted on.

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