Page 71 of Lucky Puck

If he hadn’t been injured, I would have been on the second line, or worse, and most likely wouldn’t have had the same scoring opportunities I ended up with.

He gives me a sharp nod as he returns to his spot next to me, and I don’t miss the competitive glint in his eyes as he acknowledges me. I have no doubt he’s thinking the same thing I am, and no doubt he’s determined to move back into his scoring slot, and to hell with my scorching scoring record.

While it’s true we all want to win, it’s also true that we all believe in our own abilities to make that happen. He has good reason to be confident, having been a top league scorer for the past three seasons, a three-time 50-goal scorer.

My stats for this season so far may be impressive, but it’s only been half of one season, a pitifully small sample size to justify the kind of media frenzy surrounding me. I’m a rookie, and by definition, in spite of all the phenom hype, I have a lot to prove, years of scoring titles, MVPs, and Stanley Cups ahead of me to make good on.

I’m acutely aware that there are a million different ways my career could go besides up.

Nothing like a proper challenge to get my adrenaline pumping. My nerves jitter, and I stay quiet because if I talk, my voice will have an edge. That’s the edge I need to save for the game.

Concentrating on the adrenaline shooting through my veins, it feels like it’s coming through a fire hose, drenching me in energy and strength. We line up behind our captain, Sabien, in a pecking order decided by the coach, and damn it, Jason is ahead of me.

“You and Jason will split turns on the first line since you both have time limitations,” Coach Nash says. He’s looking at me as if I should be okay with his logic. But I’m not.

Because logic and reason have nothing to do with the burn I feel, the need to be the best, to live up to every overhyped syllable anyone has ever uttered about me—and outdo it.

Windy lumbers to a stop next to me in our ritual semi-circle and looks between me and Jason. “Guess you two are competing for a spot tonight.” He pauses, but neither of us says a word. “May the best man win,” he says. “For the team.”

I stare at him while my teammates grunt their approval.

As we file toward the ice, Ax taps his stick on my shin pads. I let him lumber past me and follow Jason out into the tunnel. Gathering my confidence and resolve, I regroup with a mental rundown of all my systems and body parts as if I’m a machine.

Because I am a fucking hockey machine.

The last place I dwell on is my head, absently touching a gloved hand to my temple where the stitches are. The headache has dulled with sporadic flare-ups but hasn’t disappeared.

The important thing is concentration and vision. I can see fine.

And there’s only one way to test my concentration.

Sabien calls out a chant, and we parade to the ice for pre-warm-ups. With a low voice, I say to Jason, “Enjoy your time on the first line tonight while you can.”

He laughs. “I was thinking the same about you, but I wasn’t immature enough to say it.” He taps my shin with his stick, a little harder than is standard for the gesture, and I swear I’m going to get a hat trick tonight if I have to crawl half-conscious to the goal.

I grin back at him, but I feel the edge showing itself, and it’s very sharp.

Surging forward through the gate, I hop onto the ice and glide, gaining momentum as I absorb the crisp cold breeze, skating fast on the pristine rink. Heaven on earth.

Coach Logan waves me over to the bench after a couple dozen turns around the rink, and I’m surprised to see Doc Scully there with him.

“Doc.” I nod. “No changing your mind about me playing now. The genie’s out of the bottle⁠—”

“I’m not changing my mind,” the crusty old doctor says, and I wonder how long he’s been doing this, looking after NHL teams. “I’m checking in. The first hint of nausea and you come off the ice. For the duration.” He scowls and gives me a death stare that would scare me if I weren’t so determined to play—no matter what.

“Got it.” I glance into the stands and then remember I had Brooks sit in the luxury box with Sabien’s wife and family. My sister and her devil-friend are sitting in the seats not too far from the bench where I got the tickets. Kara sees me and waves, and when I dart my eyes to Nora, she blows me a kiss.

It’s all I can do not to rip off my glove and give her the finger—which is not like me at all. Normally I’d laugh. So I force a grin, albeit not a happy grin, more like a warning with bared teeth.

“Come off the ice now,” Coach says, and I look at him like he’s threatened to chop my balls off because that’s how it feels. He rolls his eyes. “I’d rather save your exertion for the game. You’ve warmed up. You don’t need shooting drills.”

“I barely⁠—”

“You don’t have a say in the decision.” His voice has so much edge I feel like checking my balls to make sure they’re still attached. I know better than to argue with Coach—any coach. What the hell is wrong with me?

If I didn’t have so much pride stuck up my ass, I’d ask Doc if irrational behavior was a concussion symptom because I’m way off the reservation—even for me.

Coach shakes his head as I climb back onto the bench to join Coach Logan and Doc, along with our back-up goalie, the trainer, equipment manager, and Assistant Coach Nash, who’s busy with his tablet. He gestures me over, and we get busy going over some plays.