Page 47 of Puck My Life

I want them to win so badly. Each team goes to opposite ends of the ice and stands in a line. But, instantly, I can tell that the Alpha Hoard has a camaraderie or bond that the Scented Scorpions are missing.

“Let’s meet our starting line.” The voice thunders across the screaming crowd, reaching every part of the arena.

Blue spotlights circle the crowd, and music plays, setting the atmosphere. As each player is called, they skate to the blue line and hold up their stick; the crowd screams for both teams.

They line up on the blue lines, and everyone takes off their helmets and waits while the anthems are sung. I check my phone for the fiftieth time, reading Mal’s last message to me.

Come home, Vae. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.

“Except you can’t,” I mutter.

The lights come on bright and white, turning the ice into its pristine game readiness. The players stand there for another moment, and then they head to their respective goals. They gather close, bending into a huddle while I assume it’s Julius Keene shouting the pre-game pep talk.

“Come on, Deacon, you have this,” I whisper.

I can see Mal easily. He’s wearing my birthday number on his jersey. Twenty-six. While Deacon wears the eighty-six. No one will know, but the eight is Raynor, and the six is for me.

When I’d asked Deacon why, he’d looked at me like I was crazy and said, “Because I need you on the ice with me.” He needs me.

My eyes fill with stupid tears again.

I glance at the empty seat beside me. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I open the message and find one from Marilyn.

“Sorry, there’s been an emergency. He asked for a rain check.”

I send back a vague affirmative and turn back to the game. The rest of the players are on the bench now, and the only ones on are the first line, the goalie, and the defensemen. Deacon and Mal are both off the ice at the moment.

Deacon will go on with the second line change, but Mal is on the third line. I sit back, twisting my fingers again. Phew, I don’t think I’ve been this nervous since Deacon first took to the ice.

I twist my fingers and watch as the whistle blows. Ten seconds later, I watch the referee drop the puck. Julius Keene, with a huge sixty-nine on his back, pushes and slaps his stick, pulling the puck and sending it flying back and to the left.

The game moves fast, but, within minutes, it's clear to see that the Alpha Hoard want it more, and they actually play as a team. The Scorpions don’t pass to each other; they don’t talk. When the puck gets snatched up by the assistant captain of the Hoard, the left forward for the Scorpions snarls at Julius instead.

I sit down, dismayed to see how badly it’s going, and in seconds. They have no chance of winning while they are playing like this.

The first goal swishes into the net just moments later, completely sliding past our goalie while Deacon was racing to get on the ice. The team aura turns violent and vicious.

I don’t know how else to explain it, but, suddenly, they are slamming into the Alpha Hoard players. Blocking them using bodies and sticks. The clack and slash of skates through ice has me wincing. Deacon slams into the Alpha Hoard like he’s on a mission to devastate them. The puck seems almost an afterthought. Even our forwards and center get in on it. The other team can’t score, but neither can we.

When I see Mal slammed into the boards, I stand up, staring down at him with my heart in my throat. He shoves himself free, throws his gloves, and starts throwing punches.

“No!”

I call his name, but there’s no way he can hear me over the thirsty howling of the crowd around me, the crowd that is egging them on, baying for blood.

They bang on the glass, the booms echoing around the arena. Music plays, and I can hear the whistles of the refs trying to get order. But the snarling and clash of sticks and fists echo in my brain, and I can’t see Mal.

On the big screen, they show the fight and then flash to coach Wallace. He’s got his hand over his mouth, his face is red, and his eyes are almost spitting fire.

Mal is pulled out of the pile, dragged up by his jumper, and shoved away. Deacon grabs him and drags him away from the others, checking him over. Mal growls, his expression fierce on the big screen, before the refs get up in Deacon’s face and send him off the ice.

Mal is sent to the penalty box, order is regained, but the refs have to wrestle for it for almost the entire game, and by the time it’s finished, most of the players have been in and out of the sin bin, and they all look like they’ve been through the wringer.

I stand in front of my seat, waiting for the crowd to disappear. Disappointed for Mal, furious with both of them, and just tired. So tired. If they want this that much, and they can’t even get it together for a single game, then they will never change, and their dreams will be dust within a year.

With a sigh, I snatch up my bag and trot down the stairs, slipping out of the arena as quietly as I slipped in. No one notices me.

I get to my car, glaring at the silver paint that’s peeling before I catch sight of my reflection. There’s someone behind me.