Page 63 of Two for Roughing

It might be disgusting, sexist, and highly problematic, but at least Kilian belonged.

He went into the third feeling optimistic for a change.

The stalemate held for seventeen minutes, both teams generating chances but no one capitalizing on them. Petterson—though he’d told Kilian in disgustingly exhaustive detail about how his Raya hookup in Philadelphia had promised to perform oral on the flight over, insinuating he would be “sucked dry” before the game—had been running a masterclass on shutting down the Magpies. But the Magpies’ aging D-core decided to show up for the third, blocking the Firecrackers at every turn.

Fulls followed Lissy’s instructions to the letter, bothering his brother incessantly. Not an easy feat given their lines rarely matched up. He was tenacious, if not as talented at his brother at getting a rise out of others.

Finally, with less than three minutes to go in the period, he got Fuller’s attention, but he’d been too close. When Fuller spun around to face his little brother, the butt end of Fulls’s stick slammed into Fuller’s cheek, causing a minor brawl to break out between them. Though the refs instantly called a penalty and sent Fulls to the box, it took a few more moments to break up the fight.

Damir got to Matheson before he could get involved, holding him back with a strong grip. Kilian rolled his eyes. Such a mother hen, keeping the rookies out of trouble. He did the same with Kilian, cooking him meals and checking in to see if he’d drunk enough water. He’d even gotten them an appointment with a figure-skating coach, and Kilian didn’t believe for a second it had anything to do with Damir’s own backcheck. He was trying to fix Kilian’s game.

Whatever. Damir would learn soon enough it was a losing prospect, as would the rest of the Firecrackers. Kilian would enjoy their companionship while it lasted, until they realized there was no way he could keep up the scoring pace. He would enjoy Damir’s attention and the frequent phone sex until he realized Kilian was that needy all the time. When he got traded again or relegated to the AHL team in a couple years, the memories would be great.

Coach Simmons whistled behind the bench. “PK two, go!”

For a moment, Kilian stayed put until the coach clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re up, Howard.”

“Oh, shit.” He hopped the boards, still not believing it entirely. Coach had put him on PK2 during practice the last couple days, but Kilian wasn’t clear on why. It seemed a monumentally stupid idea. Up until being traded here, Kilian’s plus-minus read like a Greek tragedy, but here he was, squaring off against Polkin, one of the Magpies’ A’s.

A mightily pissed-off A, judging by his expression.

Kilian spat his mouthguard out. “Hey, Polkin. You give your girlfriend that look, too, when she doesn’t let you score?”

An angry rumble emanated from Polkin’s throat, and Kilian snickered.

The whistle blew, and Kilian sniped the puck away and shot it to Rocky. His mouthguard dangled out of the corner of his mouth instead of protecting his jaw the way it should. Oops.

Rocky, by virtue of being built like a brick shithouse, muscled past the offense, barely catching the puck from skittering away. The Magpies’ PP1 unit sucked without Fowler, who’d been taken back for concussion protocol.

Kilian hauled ass up the ice, eyes on the puck. Rocky excelled at regaining possession, but he wasn’t the world’s best stickhandler. He might lose the puck any second unless Kilian could get into a good position with an open passing lane.

He made it by the skin of his teeth, pulling ahead of Rocky and his tail of forwards in time for Rocky to pass him the puck inches away from the blue line. Not offsides, Kilian was not offsides, and the path between him and the goal was clear. He had no idea how he’d outpaced the Magpies’ entire power play, but all he had to do was angle the puck just right to slide it in under the goalie’s leg before he could get his pads down.

The light went off.

The crowd booed.

Approximately six thousand pounds of enthusiastic hockey player slammed into Kilian in celebration. He could see his own dumbstruck face on the jumbotron screen, too shocked to so much as celly properly. He’d never scored a shortie before.

The next twenty seconds of his shift went by in a blur.

They lost the faceoff, but Rocky battled it out for possession, then lost it again. The Magpies tried for a shot on net, but it went wide.

Kilian hopped the boards and collapsed onto the bench. People on all sides clapped his shoulders.

“Nice job,” Coach said.

Damir said nothing, but his eyes burned hot into Kilian’s for the one moment of eye contact he allowed himself.

The game ended a minute later.

They named Kilian first star for getting the game-winning goal. He did his celebratory lap around the ice to the dulcet sounds of angry Philadelphia fans. The boos made him grin widely. He saluted the loudest sections of the crowd and headed down the tunnel to the locker room, where raucous cheers and an absolutely disgusting beer shower greeted him.

“There was no champagne on hand,” Lissy explained, pulling him into a rough side hug. “But next time we go out, I will buy you a whole bottle of the finest Dom Pérignon on the premises, you fucking beauty!”

Kilian wrinkled his nose. “I mean, thanks, but I’m really more of a vodka guy.”

Lissy recoiled. “Your lack of taste and class has been noted, but I will accept it if you keep scoring goals like that.”