Page 27 of Power Play

eleven

. . .

Al

The ice is my happy place. I love hockey, getting to play the sport I’ve devoted the last twenty years of my life to. There’s nothing like skating out onto a clean sheet of ice, the crisp scent settling my nerves and pumping adrenaline through my system. Even when we’re in enemy territory, nothing can bring me down.

After this game, we’re home for six days. That’s six mornings I get to spend with Emmy. We’ve got three home games, so I won’t be able to put her to bed every night, but I can do bath time and bedtime at least a few of those evenings.

I expected to be a hands-on dad, but I’m continuously surprised by how much Riley does, how little she needs me. Still, I participate as much as I can with my schedule, and I try to get up with Emmy every morning I’m home.

Home. I’m ready to sleep in my own bed, rather than another shitty hotel room. Ready to be reunited with my girls.

MacGregor skates past me, giving me a nod. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” We’re playing Montreal, and it’s sure to be a bloodbath. It always is, given our century-long rivalry.

He nods again as he moves on to Mitchell, who’s warming up a few feet away. The new guy is settling in well. He’s a veteran in his early thirties, so he knows the score.

And score, he does, five minutes into the first.

Montreal does not like that, challenging the play. But the goal was clean, and we go on the power play.

I set up shop at the left point. Logan quarterbacks the play, Sinclair straddling the blue line in support, and Mitchell and Jenkins get all up in the crease.

Logan passes the puck to Sinclair, who saucers it over to me, and my slapshot lands squarely on the goalie’s pads.

But Jenkins is there to clean up the play. Even though he can’t seal the deal on the rebound, he’s able to kick the puck back, and Logan scoops it onto his blade and back to me.

This time, my shot lands in the back of the net, and the lamp lights up red. The guys crash tackle me into a group hug, and then we zoom past the bench for celebratory fist bumps.

Coach Turner pulls me off the ice, and I grab for a nearby bottle, spraying some of the electrolyte drink into my mouth.

“Good job,” Coach says, clapping my shoulder. “Now do it again.”

I grin. “You got it.”

Larsson scores a goal, and in the second, so does Jenkins, off an assist by Mitchell. In the third, Montreal scores two dirty goals, but a bullet from Sinclair seals the deal.

We win, 4-2. It’s a buoyant mood in the room as we cool down and clean up. Rock music blares, and guys chat and laugh as we get dressed in our suits. I grab my ring, slipping it onto my finger. I’m surprised by how natural it feels after only a few weeks.

“Hang on,” MacGregor says, catching my shoulder.

“What’s up, Cap?”

He grabs my arm. “What’s that?”

I cock my head. “What are you talking about?”

“The thing. On your hand.”

“Oh, that. Riley and I got married.”

The room falls silent.

“Are you kidding?” MacGregor’s quiet voice echoes through the room. His deadly calm face does little to lessen his intensity, his ice-blue eyes boring into me.

“Why would I joke about this?” I glance at my teammates, but they all look as confused as our captain.