Page 42 of Punked By the Playmaker
The second my stick blade touched the puck behind the Cougars’ net, I rang it around the boards toward where I trusted Jagger would be stationed at the blue line. Within the next breath, a body slammed mine into the glass, and I let out a grunt, shaking off the defender and positioning myself in front of the goalie.
We maintained possession within the zone, Jagger making a D-to-D pass over to Crew, who reared back for a high-powered slap shot. I barely managed to move out of the way in time, and it made a ringing sound as it hit the crossbar.
Fuck, an inch lower and that would have been a goal.
As Cole gathered the puck, I drifted backward on my skates, creating some space from the Cougar player covering me in the blue paint of the crease, my stick pressed hard to the ice, ready for a hard pass from my center.
The sneaky bastard looked in the other direction, drawing attention away from where I stood on the back door, right beforesending the most gorgeous sauce pass—where the puck hovered over the ice—that sailed over the stick of the defender between us.
I was ready and waiting, so as soon as the puck landed perfectly on my stick, I slammed it home.
A surge of exhilaration I hadn’t felt in way too long lit me up from within, and I dropped my head back, letting out a scream of triumph. My linemates rushed me to celebrate, and I yelled, “Fucking right, boys! Let’s do it again!”
Before we could head to the bench for the customary fist bumps after scoring, I caught the defender, Lukyanov, breaking his stick against the goalpost.
And because I just loved poking the bear—a great big Russian one in this case—I skated over and chirped, “How’d that beauty look from your front-row seat?”
His nostrils flared. “You wanna go?”
My gloves hit the ground. “A goal and the chance to kick your ass? You’re fucking right, I wanna go.”
In the next instant, we were on each other, fists flying, and the roar of the crowd grew deafening. I landed a punch to his jaw, throwing him off balance, but he came back swinging, managing to knock my helmet off. All the while, refs tried to pull us apart, screaming that it was time to break it up.
Of course we didn’t listen, continuing to pummel our opponent until, finally, I got the upper hand and knocked Lukyanov to the ground, officially winning the fight.
My teammates were banging their sticks on the boards in approval, and I was grinning from ear to ear, blood trickling from a corner of my mouth, while being escorted to the penalty box and given five minutes for fighting.
Since my sparring partner received the same penalty, it offset mine, so neither team received a power play, and play continued five-on-five.
With a clear view across the ice to the benches, I expected Davenport to be pissed, but instead, the tiniest hint of a smirk curved onto his lips, and he dipped his chin as if to say,Well done.
The fight got my guys’ blood pumping, and they were skating like lightning, laying monster hits and nailing every pass as I watched on with my hands tied, stuck in a glass box for a minimum of five minutes—Lukyanov and I wouldn’t be let out until the whistle following the expiration of our penalties; otherwise, there would be six skaters on the ice for each team.
And wouldn’t you know it, we scored twice while I was in the sin bin, which ultimately led to a victory over the Cougars by a score of 5-3.
Hell fucking yeah.
Rubbing a towel over my hair to dry it after my post-game shower, I turned to where Cole and Crew sat at the two stalls to my right inside the visitors’ locker room.
“You guys got anything going on tomorrow night?”
Cole shook his head. “Post-divorce life is surprisingly quiet. Who knew?”
Crew scowled at the mention of his twin’s failed marriage, but chimed in, “Nothing for me.”
I threw on a Surf-branded T-shirt. “It’s not every day we pull off a win, so I was thinking of celebrating with a grill-out at the new house, maybe a bonfire on the beach after the sun goes down, if you wanted to come over.”
Crew lifted a shoulder. “Sure, sounds fun.”
“I’m in,” Cole agreed.
“Great. I’ll text you the address. What do you say around six?”
“Works for me.” Cole stood, gathering his personal items and stuffing them in his travel bag for the short trip back home from LA.
“See you then.” Crew waved over his shoulder on his way out of the locker room.
It was a good thing they were both available; otherwise, I would have made a fool of myself by inviting random teammates over to my place tomorrow night until two agreed.
