Page 56 of Patrick

CHAPTER 15

TRICK

The Game

When the team hits the ice and I glide onto the glassy surface, hearing the sudden roar of the early crowd gives me that familiar jolt of adrenaline. I take my first turn around the rink with my head up, looking into the stands and absorbing the energy that is the magic of playing at the Whit.

Gazing up into the stands at center ice, I’m glad Fifi warned me about the guy sitting next to her because he’s looking at her with the kind of expression I know too well. It’s the one where he’s thinking about how he can score big with her later on. And she’s oblivious, smiling at me and clapping in spite of her parents sitting stoically, enduring the home team enthusiasm.

Bog bumps me from behind, laughing, as I realize I’ve slowed down.

“What are you looking at? Or should I ask who’s the girl?”

“Fuck you.” It’s my usual response to teasing about girls, but I have a strong urge to tell him. To talk to him about Fifi, about everything. Which is very inconvenient since we’re about to play our biggest game of the regular season.

“That’s what I thought. You can tell me about her later.” He taps me on the pads with his fat goalie stick, and I get low, leaning forward and take off, sprinting around the back of the goal and circling the ice past all my teammates.

The crowd appreciates my show of speed, my trademark and the special talent I have that might separate me from the rest when it comes to the NHL draft. That, and the mounting tally of my goals.

Coach Zabra complains about my lack of assists and shitty back-checking, but my plus-minus number says I’m doing just fine. After a few more turns around the ice, BC’s team joins us, getting a massive storm of booing from the growing crowd.

We shorten our circle to half ice, and I ignore the surge of adrenaline when I glance over and see Vincent Rossi.

As the Zamboni comes out, I follow my team and glide to the gate, but not before I give Vincent a long dark glare. The devil in me makes me raise my gloved hand and point at him.

The crowd roars and I glance up at the jumbotron to see that they caught my action.

Walking off the ice, I get extra cheers from the fans and more than one person encouraging me to beat Rossi’s head in.

Coach Zabra went to the locker room ahead of us or I wouldn’t have made the gesture, I swear. I hope to fuck he doesn’t find out.

The crowd tonight is almost as excited as I am. The roar hasn’t quieted down since the national anthem ended. As we line up for the faceoff, I take my spot at center across from B.C.’s star player, and he nods, then gives me an evil grin like he’s promising there’s hell to come.

The ref lifts the puck and tells us to get ready, and he adds, “Play a clean game.” I dart a glance at him as I lean forward with my stick at the ready. He’s serious.

Concentrating on the spot where I’m going to pull the puck as it falls to the ice, before it hits, I take in a breath and hold it as everything around me fades: the crowd noise, the B.C. player standing opposite me, even the ref. Nothing registers except my hand on the stick, the ice, and the hovering hand with the puck.

Then it drops, and my stick snaps in a succession so fast it seems simultaneous as I connect with the puck and send it flying at the exact angle so that it hits my left winger’s stick. Then everything moves at once, and the noise blasts back into my consciousness as I surge forward, taking the expected pass a second before I hit the blue line.

Circling around to avoid a poke-check, I pass it off to Sully on right wing, and he makes a wrist shot when the puck hits his stick. The crowd gives a collective gasp when it ricochets off the crossbar. I dart in the direction of the rebound a blink quicker than the defenseman and get my stick on the puck, but I’m turned around.

The other defenseman is coming at me, but I maintain control of the puck, and just as he hits me, I get off a backhand shot, lifting the puck over the goalie’s pads and watch as it flips past him into the net.

Then all hell does break loose. The red goal light flashes, the crowd roars louder than before, and my team pounces on me as the B.C. defensemen shove me away from the goal. I’m laughing for no good reason, unable to stop myself even though I know we have a long way to go to win this. But I manage to force the moment of euphoria back in its place to wait until we win the game as the ref and linemen escort us toward the boards.

As I hop over the bench, I glance into the crowd, automatically searching out Fifi. When I find her a few rows up at center ice, it’s jarring to see her sitting with her parents. She’s grinning as she meets my eyes. I barely resist making some kind of gesture to acknowledge her, but I catch Leo’s eyes, and the coldness hits me like a body slam as he stares.

Being the asshole that I am, I grin at him, not wanting to let him think he intimidates me. Even if he does just a bit.

Not enough for me to back down from him or Vince. And definitely not enough for me to back away from Fifi.

Turning, I squirt water in my mouth and swallow half of it, then switch my gloves as I watch the second and third lines play. When I get back on the ice, my adrenaline shoots like a cannon through my system because Vincent Rossi jumps over the boards to take the ice for B.C., and now the game is really on. The part of the game that’s below deck, that drives the stakes higher than an ordinary regular season game and makes the crowd pay closer attention, buzzing like an electric fence on high alert.

Vincent tracks me for my entire shift, but Van tracks him and gets in his way, keeping him busy defending against body checks. Van is at least thirty pounds bigger than Vincent and revved for a fight.

We score again when I make a pass from the corner to Sully in front of the net. B.C. finally scores against our second line, and the coach yells at us while we’re on a time out on the bench before sending the first line back out to take care of business.

“I want another goal, Jennings. Make that two more goals. Let’s see if you can live up to that nickname of yours.”