Page 87 of Power Play

thirty-three

. . .

Al

It’s Saturday night, and we’re on a national broadcast. As much as I love our local crew, there’s something special about being streamed nationwide on mainstream channels. I always want to play my best, but knowing so many extra people are watching pushes me farther.

“You good, man?” Jenkins asks me as we warm up near the left point.

“Golden.”

He offers his glove and I fist-bump him. “Your family here tonight?”

“Nah. It’s too hard with Emmy’s schedule.” I shrug. There will be plenty of games where they’re able to come, but an eight o’clock start is already past bedtime.

“Too bad. You’re always on fire when they’re here.”

I laugh. “I’m on fire every day.”

“Nah, not like you are when they’re in the stands.” Jenkins smirks at me. “Must be magic, having your wife in the crowd. Maybe I should get one of those.”

“You? A wife? Do you really think you’re ready to settle down?”

The kid is twenty-four, and even though there’s only a four-year difference between us, it feels enormous. He has a new girl on his arm every few weeks. They never last long, and they all look the same: tall, blond, and slim, with no personality beyond what gets them the most likes on social media. It’s not the life I want, but hey, if it works for him…

We continue stretching, and I study him in a new light. “What was your longest relationship?”

He scowls. “Fuck off.”

“Dude, you are so not ready for marriage.”

“I could totally do it. I’d rock the relationship thing.” But the fear in his eyes and the way his voice cracks are answer enough.

“There’s no need to rush into it. Take your time. Find the right person.”

He cocks his head. “Did you? Find the right person?”

I think of this morning, Riley in my bed, her hair splayed across my pillow as she slept. This afternoon, a hasty quickie in the daylight, a stolen moment. The way I’m looking forward to coming home after a hard game and curling up beside her, holding her in my arms all night.

“Yeah. I think I have.”

Jenkins grins, clapping me on the shoulder. “Good. I’m happy for you, man. You deserve it.”

The siren sounds, signaling the end of warm-ups. We troop back down the chute to the dressing room, where Coach Turner gives us a pep talk, McKittrick gives us some advice, and then MacGregor reads off the starting lineup.

New Orleans plays a heavy-hitting game, and although Mitchell left on decent terms, it’s clear his old team isn’t taking it easy on him. Their goons are after him all throughout the period. Every time he’s on the ice, it’s like there’s a beacon highlighting him, drawing their attention.

He takes hit after hit, giving it back tenfold, but by the middle of the first period, we’re run ragged. The only good news is that they’re leaving me and Jenkins pretty much alone, but Mitchell is our best goal scorer for a reason, and almost all our plays revolve around his slapshot. Every time we pass him the puck, he gets pummeled.

“What the fuck is going on out there?” McKittrick asks, clapping him on the shoulder when we hit the bench for a line change.

“Hell if I know,” Mitchell says, reaching for a bottle and guzzling the electrolyte drink. “This is fucking brutal.”

“You’ve got this,” Coach Turner cuts in. “Show those assholes exactly why they should have kept you, and what they’re missing out on.”

“Yes, Coach,” Mitchell says with a sardonic smile.

But when we shift back onto the ice, he’s immediately hit from behind, even though the puck is nowhere near him. He collapses to the ice—and doesn’t get up. Sprawled where the ice meets the boards, he’s in a vulnerable position, and I see red.