Page 56 of My Pucking Crush

Max

A fter the intermission, we approach the tunnel to get back on the ice. This time I opt to go last, giving Troy Madison, who I’ll suggest take over as team captain, the lead.

Lingering in the back, I feel eyes on me. Also last in Richmond’s line is Jake. Our gazes lock and I feel nothing but burning anger in his eyes. I’ve been playing this game all my life, and I’ve had some pretty intense rivals throughout the years.

I’ve never felt such visceral disgust from another player.

What happened with Jake was so long ago, and I never spoke to him again after freshman year. He never once reached out to me.

But still, I wondered if what we felt for each other was all in my head. Or did all kids experiment with their best friends?

I can’t stop thinking there’s a connection between the threats against me and Jake fucking Quinn being on the team owned by the guy who wants to hurt me.

Don’t get mad. Get even.

Living well is the best revenge.

Don’t let an opponent live in your head.

I’m torn between wanting to ignore Jake and hurt him more than I would any other rival. Especially during playoffs. He’s on their third shift, I’ve barely faced him this entire series.

I put it out of my head. But it won’t stay gone.

THE GAME IS A DISASTER . For us. And me. I can’t match the speed of their forward’s dribbling. It’s like he’s on performance enhancing drugs. Or maybe my setting is stuck on a slower speed. I don’t know where to put my stick, and when I do get the puck to pass, it hits the wrong stick.

Lance Reynolds, the goalie, is also off his game tonight.

Like football blitzes, Richmond is sending their men across the blue line in an onslaught of shots. Three get in by the third period, and we’ve barely gotten out of our zone.

I reach that place where I give up. Where I unclench every muscle and put this game behind me to look forward to the next one. This is hardly a surprise. Many sports teams play a best of seven games, and almost always, the team facing elimination gets a second wind.

In Richmond’s case it’s an F5 tornado.

In the spirit of sport, I want to be happy for them. There’s a reason we shake hands before and after the game. Your rival on the ice one day can be your neighbor in the locker room the next.

The game ends, the scoreboard flashing the Crushers defeat. Richmond hugs each other, the entire bench emptying onto the ice to celebrate.

Triumphant music blasts from the speakers. I leave the ice and look at the bright side. We could win the series back in Stamford.

Christ, I’m so happy we’re flying home tonight. I need to sleep in my own bed with my hot Russian bodyguard.